The Forfeit Daughter
by AerynFire
Summary: Holmes and Watson take the case of a wealthy merchant, whose past crimes and indescretions have now made him a hunted man. However, it is not only his life that now hangs in the balance. Complete
1. The Repellent Client

_**The Forfeit Daughter**_

**_Chapter One:_** **_A Repellent Client  
_**

It was a dreary and rainy late August night in 1888, and I had been attempting to catch up on my writing for the last three-quarters of an hour while Holmes played his violin. At first, it had been rather soothing, and I had managed to detail a rather interesting case that I titled 'A Scandal in Bohemia.' However, any such comfort was soon swept away when the violin's chords began playing with ever increasing volume and speed. In fact...it had become rather jarring.

I must admit, part of me wondered what had gotten Holmes into such a foul mood, but the more irritated half won the internal struggle, and, glaring up at him, I asked, "I say, old man! Could you perhaps play something a bit quieter?"

The playing stopped instantly, the bow lowering from the strings of the instrument.

"This..." Holmes replied tersely, "is _Paganini_...one does not play it _quieter_, Watson. One plays it from the soul."

"Very well," I replied, placing my pen down on the journal. "And what, if I may be so bold, has gotten your soul into such an uproar this evening?"

"In a word, Watson...boredom," Holmes exclaimed, as he walked to the window. "It's as if the entire city of London has declared a moratorium on crime. My mind is crying out for work!"

My brow furrowed at his words, concerned at what had caused his black mood. "Holmes, old man, I am sure that a case of significant merit and import will present itself shortly. A city this size cannot be quiet for long." Though I hoped my words were comforting, I knew that such statements from him usually ended with him either receiving a case or turning to the cocaine bottle that sat on the mantel. I found myself hoping that a crime would occur, if only to prevent the latter from happening. "I thought you were currently busy with a case that Lestrade presented to you. Has that been concluded?"

"It never began," he huffed. "It was little more than a petty burglary...a cursory examination of the facts quickly revealed that to me. Lestrade assumed because it was a dignitary's house and there were papers missing from the safe that it was some grand political plot..." He breathed out a long sigh. "I found the papers dumped in the park across from the house three minutes after leaving the scene of the crime...it was purely a financial operation. Petty theft and burglary, the police can handle on their own." He shook his head with disgust. "I have not had a proper case since April...look at the trees, Watson! It's August, damn it! Autumn!"

I felt another surge of sympathy for my companion. Holmes's mind was a veritable engine needing constant stoking as a steam engine required coal. "I am sure a client will walk through the door soon," I assured him, and as if in some answer to a prayer there was a knock on that very door.

Holmes glanced at the closed entryway, and then at me with an expression of mild surprise, before putting down his violin and bow as he turned to face the door more fully. "Enter," he called out.

The door opened, and in wandered a rather put out Mrs. Hudson. "Mr. Holmes...there is a man downstairs who wishes to see you. I've explained to him that it was late, but he was most insistent."

Holmes's eyes lit up almost instantly. "Show him up, Mrs. Hudson. Show him up at once!"

The older woman sighed, and, muttering about keeping insane hours, moved back the way she had come, only to return a moment later with a tall, red-headed, well built man with a large moustache and dressed impeccably in evening wear.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked rather gruffly, betraying a slight West Country bias both in speech and in manner. He did not stand on ceremony as he looked around the room. "I wish to speak with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Then, sir," Holmes said, remaining where he was, with his hands clasped behind his back as he observed the newcomer, "your wish has been granted, for I am he."

The two men eyed each other closely. "Are you indeed?" the man asked.

"I am..." Holmes replied, before his tone took on a more acerbic quality which indicated that he had already decided that he was not favourably disposed towards the newcomer. "This is my home...and you might be?" he queried, reminding him of his manners.

"Ah...yes..." the man started to say, as he took off his dress overcoat, causing Holmes to raise an eyebrow at the man's brazen assumption. After draping it over a chair without so much as a by your leave, he stalked forward towards my companion with his hand outstretched. "The name's Thurlow…Arthur Wendell Thurlow."

Holmes eyed the man's hand as if it were covered with grime. "How do you do?" he returned coolly, and moved over to his chair. "This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson."

"How do you do?" I replied, rather fascinated by the man's manner, before standing to fill his empty hand in a vain attempt to cover for Holmes declining to do so. His grip was excessively firm in the style of a man determined to show his dominance.

"Pleasure," he said brusquely, glancing at the detective again.

"Now that the pleasantries have been exchanged," Holmes announced, seating himself by his desk. "To what do we owe your presence here amongst us, Mr. Thurlow?"

"Right," Thurlow replied, unceremoniously seating himself in a chair opposite and flicking the tails of his claw hammer dress coat back behind him as he did. "I'm a straight speaking man, so I shall come straight to the point, Mr. Holmes." He leaned forward, and looked my colleague right in the eye. "I am a hunted man."

Holmes raised one eyebrow, which was his only physical reaction. "Indeed?" he said quietly. "And what gives you that impression, Mr. Thurlow?"

"There's no i_mpression_ about it, man! This is a fact! As good a one as you and I are born!" Thurlow suddenly and rather violently asserted. "I am being hunted down by some heathen savage."

If Holmes was bothered by being yelled at, he showed no sign as he gazed evenly at the red-headed man. "And you know it is a _heathen savage_ precisely how, Mr. Thurlow?"

The question gave the big man pause, and for the first time there was hesitation in his face. "I know..." he said slowly, as he reached into the inside pocket of the coat he had discarded, "...because of this, firstly." He pulled out a long bladed, curved knife. "Do you know what this is?"

"Yes..." Holmes breathed, sitting forward, and holding out his hand, his eyes finally returning to an interested state. "A Khukuri."

"Khukuri?" I asked, knowing obviously it was a type of knife but oblivious to all else.

"Yes," my friend concurred with a nod, before turning to explain. "It's a most effective weapon and tool, native to Nepal and Northern India, thought to be descended from the Kopis knives carried there by Alexander the Great's ancient invading army. It is carried with great distinction by the Ghurkas of Her Majesty's army."

Not for the first nor last time in my life, I shook my head at Holmes's breadth of knowledge.

"See?" he continued, leaning towards me and showing me the sharp indentation near the hilt of the blade like jagged tooth. "This is the _Cho._ It has a religious rather than functional significance, and is a dedication to the goddess Kali, representing a piece of her genitalia. It gives the knife functionality, makes it 'live' if you will." He turned it over admiringly. "It is widely regarded as one of the finest pieces of weaponry in the world. And from the looks of the work on the hilt and the script on the blade itself, it belongs to a man in official service, possibly a bodyguard to an important personage in northern India...near Agra or Kanpur...some such area."

Thurlow for the first time looked mildly impressed. "Aye..." he agreed with a nod, his accent coming out a little more strongly. "That's correct. Most probably from just outside Kanpur."

Holmes's hazel eyes looked up at him. "I presume you came by this when it was used on you either as a warning or an out and out attempt on your life?"

The other man nodded. "I found it embedded a good two inches into my desk at my place of work today. No one in my offices has the slightest idea how it got there. Took me a good fifteen minutes to pry it loose. It was a warning all right…damn savages want me to sweat. They want me to know they're coming for me."

"So..." Holmes sat back, fingering the point of the blade. "You clearly know the identity of your attackers. Why not go to the police rather than seek our aid? Ask them to seek them out and hunt them down?"

Thurlow's face visibly darkened. "I've no wish to bring the authorities into this."

Holmes and I exchanged brief glances immediately. "Mr. Thurlow, " Holmes said briskly, "who are you, and what exactly is it you do?"

Our visitor sat back. "I am the chairman and General Manager of Balfour & Thurlow, Ltd.," he said quietly.

My eyes widened. "You're _that_ Thurlow?" I exclaimed. "The Asian Import/Export business?"

"Yes," he affirmed with a nod. "That's us."

"I read about it in _The Times_, a few months ago!" I breathed. "You and your partner, the late Mr. Balfour, are widely celebrated for the success of your venture, and how rapidly you managed to build up your business from nothing to such profitable heights. Holmes," I continued, "Mr. Thurlow here is one of the most successful entrepreneurs of our time. His company supplies goods to virtually every reputable firm in the country, running from clothiers through pharmaceutical manufacturers."

"Indeed?" Holmes nodded quietly. "And I take it that during the course of this extraordinarily rapid and celebrated building process, you managed to step on a few toes?" He lifted the blade into the air. "And it is your reputation that you seek to protect...as much as your life."

Thurlow caught Holmes's rather caustically amused tone and raised his chin. "Yes," he snapped rather shortly. "It was probably that damnable article that most likely brought them down on us in the first place."

"Savages who read _The Times_?" Holmes's humour only grew. "How fascinating. Perhaps, Mr. Thurlow, rather than us trying to piece this story together, you should go back to the beginning and inform us how _this _came to pass?"

Thurlow eyed us suspiciously. "Am I to understand that you are to take my case?" he demanded uncouthly. "I've no wish to spill my guts and my past if you're not to be a part of this."

A note of exasperation crept into Holmes voice. "Mr. Thurlow, I hardly see how you have any choice in the matter. You seek our help, as you seem to have no recourse to the authorities and few other options. You may seek out another private detective, if indeed you can even find one. And we do not take cases without all the facts available to us. Now, either you are completely honest with me, or we shall say goodnight." He leaned forward once more and handed Thurlow back his blade.

Looking at the shining metal glinting in the fire and lamplight, the businessman took it gingerly, and with a slow exhale of breath, some of the overbearing arrogance seeped out of him. "Very well," he agreed, his voice with a definite sour note. "You shall know it all."

Holmes settled back and intertwined his fingers, waiting for the story to unfold.

"I served in India nearly thirty-five years ago now...when the subcontinent was only unfolding to us." Thurlow looked into the fire with a faraway gaze. "The place was wild and wonderful...so many opportunities for a man to make his fortune." His face hardened, and with a nod to himself, he continued, "And I was determined to do so. I was an officer...but had dragged myself up to that position, and had spent my entire army service being looked down on by my more well-heeled or well-bred colleagues…all except Hamish Balfour, another Captain in my regiment. He alone was my friend." His voice took on a most quiet tone at that. "When our service came to an end, he and I decided to take advantage of some of the connections we had made and set out to make and secure our futures...and to do so as quickly as we could."

"You wished to _show _your former army colleagues up," Holmes observed.

Thurlow nodded in agreement, as he sat back again. "Them...and others. Along with a local merchant named Dupresh Rai, we began our operations out of Amritsar. Hamish had some connections in Scotland with people desperate for Asian goods, tea, spices, silk, and the like, and we began to find ways of supplying them cheaply whilst turning a profit."

Holmes nodded before prompting, "Only after a little time...you found your profit margin wasn't healthy enough. At least not for what you wanted it to be."

"The money was coming in," Thurlow agreed, "but not fast enough...not enough...I wanted more. I needed more…so we diversified our business."

"Diversified?" I asked with a frown.

Thurlow's eyes turned to me with a look of pure defiance. "Drugs, purloined gemstones from various internecine wars...and...slaves," he explained without a hint of remorse.

My countenance darkened immediately. "Slaves?" I repeated, glancing at Holmes, whose only response was a "Go on."

"India was still, at that time, in the process of being conquered." He smirked and paused. "I beg your pardon, _civilized_ is the more widely used term, isn't it? In any event, there were still large parts of it not quite under British control, and a great many wars going on between competing Rajahs looking to gain power in the uncertainty of the time." He inhaled as he continued to think back. "A great many raids and battles went on, and the ruling kings had to fund their wars without bankrupting their treasuries…there was also a great demand for cheap labour in North Africa."

I couldn't help but snort my derision in his direction. "Cheap labour my foot," I said in annoyance. "You mean the slave trade, sir, and you know it."

"Yes, Dr. Watson," Thurlow agreed with a calm nod. "I do…and I know what you must think of me, but while I accept the ill of it, I remind you that this great Empire of ours was built on the back of such a trade to the Americas and to Africa, as distasteful as it might be for you to hear it."

I bit my tongue, holding back a retort, and knowing all too well the official history of such a heinous trade. Thurlow's eyes remained brazenly on me, and I quickly found myself coming to the same level of dislike for the man that Holmes's earlier assessment had brought him to.

"How hypocritical is the world we live in," he observed to me. "It's your sort of reaction, Doctor, that is forcing me to come to you and Mr. Holmes, because, as you no doubt see, in the light of the aftermath of the American War between the States, slavery and slave running is regarded with less tolerance then once it was. Society is quick to shun what once made it rich and prosperous when it no longer suits them. Yes, I hid my former connections with the trade, and no one, not even my family, knows precisely how I made much of my fortune," he told us. "Yes, I know what I have done is wrong…and I have no wish for it to become public again, especially in light of the many bleeding heart do gooders who ignore what benefits they themselves have accrued from such practices through the society they live in and choose only to vilify people without the slightest understanding of the situation that existed at the…"

"Please!" I stood up in annoyance, unable to bear any more of his self justification. "Your actions were barbaric and un-Christian, and I for one…"

"Watson, Mr. Thurlow," Holmes's voice cut across me and our visitor both with quiet efficiency. "Might I remind you both that we are not here to debate the ethics of Mr. Thurlow's past, but rather to deal with the problems of his present?"

"Problems, if you ask me, that are on his own head," I said, seating myself reluctantly once more.

"That's as may be," Holmes acceded. "But he is here as a prospective client, and we should do him the courtesy of at least hearing his story till the end before rendering our judgment on whether it is a fit case for us to take."

I nodded in silent agreement, folding my arms and glowering somewhat.

"Continue," Holmes instructed to Thurlow, who nodded and did just that.

"Beyond Kanpur, there were two such kings…Rajahs, as I say, who had had a long standing feud. With the flood of English guns into the region, the feud quickly escalated to become an out and out war." He shook his head. "Bitter it was…and bloody. The British establishment declined to intervene, preferring that both these strong warlords wipe each other out before they stepped in."

"To mop up and overpower the victor no doubt," Holmes observed.

"Precisely, Mr. Holmes," Thurlow agreed. "And as such, they turned a blind eye to just about everything that went on."

"Thereby making it easier for you to move the '_spoils of war,'_ as it were, without any particular problems," my colleague said again, garnering another nod from our guest.

"After one particular raid on an enemy caravan, an emissary of Jehan Shurapak, one of the Rajahs, contacted us, and told us that apart from a great consignment of jewels and silks, he had taken a large number of hostages, mostly women, from the household of Anand Mahindra, his rival, as he moved them to safety from his headquarters to his summer palace. These were refined women of great education, beauty, and training from his household service and harem. Women that would fetch a great price in the slave markets of Marrakech." He paused, while I fought back another wave of disgust. "So Arthur, Rai, and I talked it over, and we took a great gamble…Jehan's asking price was huge, but we took it and put our futures on the line, mortgaging what we had for the undertaking."

He looked into the fire in the hearth. "So we rented a cargo ship, with a captain who had a track record in such things, and took hold of our consignment of merchandise, bringing them on board and intending to stow them in the hold."

"Merchandise!" I exclaimed, unable to hold it in. "What kind of a man would treat a woman so? Those were human beings! Ladies, sir!" I continued in heated outrage.

He looked back at me. "Indeed they were, Doctor, one amongst them in particular…and had I known what it was I was taking on, you would not have seen me near them for dust."

Holmes sat forward a little, sensing we were getting near the meat of the matter.

"The women were piled into the bowels of the ship along with the other goods we had purchased, and we set sail..." His brow furrowed a little. "We decided, Hamish and I, to travel with them; as so much of ourselves was tied up in the transaction, it seemed foolish to leave it to others. During the journey, the women were released in groups to serve as maids above decks to make the journey more comfortable and to give them air and sunshine." His eyes returned to the fire.

"Needless to say, it is a long journey from the coast of Eastern India to Marrakech, and during the course of the voyage, some of the women…caught the eye of the men aboard."

I stood once again in disgust, part of me knowing what was coming, but nauseated all the same. Saying nothing, and receiving an understanding look from Holmes, I walked to the window and stood looking out.

"One of them caught mine…" Thurlow continued, unperturbed by my reaction. "She was a beauty," he breathed, "even amongst the gems we had, she was a jewel. Such pride and grace, her brown skin flawless, her almond eyes like twin pools of chocolate, her lips…"

"Your point, Mr. Thurlow," Holmes said, sensing my increasing discomfort behind him.

"That night shall live long in my memory, we were nearing the end of the voyage, and I knew I would have to sell her on. Balfour would agree to nothing less. She was the pride of our stock, and yet I did not want to let her go, not without…not…I…" he faltered, his words drying up, and even from where I stood across the room I could hear his ragged breathing.

"You raped her," Holmes said quietly, sitting back. "You took her by force…a Rajah's daughter…a princess."

I turned and glanced at Holmes as quickly as Thurlow looked up at him.

"How did you know she was…?" he began, even as Holmes waved it away.

"It was not hard to deduce from what you said previously. How you spoke of her," he said quietly enough, though his eyes were hard as he looked at our so-called client in front of us. "Nor is it hard to construe that such an act did not end well."

"I did not know…" Thurlow said, suddenly looking haunted. "I had no idea who she was. The other women protected her identity, either through her order or…"

"Should it have made any difference, Mr. Thurlow?" Holmes's voice interrupted, taking on the hard quality of his eyes, much to my approval. "Should it have made any difference who she was, what rank, or what caste she was?"

Thurlow's shoulders slumped, and for once his eyes did not meet either of us. "No…I suppose not, Mr. Holmes," he exhaled. "It was after that I realized how far I had fallen as a gentleman and a human being…I vowed that this would be my last such venture. Unfortunately, the vow came too late."

I folded my arms, waiting to hear what happened.

"My estimation of her as proud was not amiss…" the red-headed man said. "A Rajah's daughter, like any princess, is a proud woman..." He stood up and moved to the fire. "She was a symbol for her family and her people. After the...event...occurred, she must have deemed herself defiled, her pride and dignity destroyed..." He stared into the low flames in the hearth. "When the next morning arrived, just as the Port of Marrakech was sighted...she was found dead in the hold, having taken a knife from the serving table and killed herself during the night rather than live such a life subject to men like me."

He looked back at Holmes. "It was only then that her true identity was known…in the keening and wailing of her companions over her dead body, in their cursing and spitting at my men, in the vengeance that they called down on our heads…." he trailed off.

"Vengeance that, it seems," I said with no little satisfaction, "is being visited upon you now."

"Yes…" he agreed, as he looked at me. "And no doubt rightfully so. But I have a wife and two young boys…and a business to run…and I am in no hurry to pay for the sins of my youth. And…" He paused again. "There is not only myself to consider in this act of vengeance. There are others too in peril."

"Others?" Holmes inquired quickly. "Who?"

Thurlow gazed at us both for a moment, and continued on with his story. "After I had a meeting with the captain and Hamish, we decided we had to press on. We had too much to lose. So her body was disposed of in the usual custom...her remains were sent overboard. The other women from the party were sold on, as were the other goods we had taken with us…and between the women, the jewels, and drugs we had brought, we made a fortune…in one transaction, we were all richer then we had ever dreamed possible, and we channelled it into taking over several smaller import-export firms in Britain, turning it into Balfour & Thurlow, and going legitimate. With our colleague Rai still operating and expanding in India and beyond, we were able to establish an axis, and our wealth grew rapidly, dealing solely in legal items, while no one suspected us in the disappearance of Rajah Mahindra's daughter.

"You see," he said. "We had operated in India along with many other aspiring traders. The numbers and names fluctuated constantly with hundreds of men seeking their fortunes. We did work for both Rajahs, as did the other myriad of traders. Mahindra's search for his daughter was hampered by that, as it was by Jehan's emissary who sold us the women, and the only man who knew our real identities, being killed in an ambush just days after we had left for Marrakech. Caught up in the long running war as Mahindra was and with so much confusion over what had happened, all exacerbated by the British army moving immediately into the kingdom to '_establish a protectorate'_ after Mahindra and Jehan had fought themselves to a bloody standstill, it would have been impossible for a long time to put energy and resources into the search for his daughter…" He inhaled and shook his head. "I suppose it was inevitable that eventually he would find some leads, some hint of a trail…he must have finally pieced it together, thanks to that _Times_ article, and all that talk of the one great transaction that made us, as Hamish would love to hint about and never keep quiet about while he was alive. He must have figured out that we were in the right place at the right time…and that such a transaction would've made us enough money to expand the way we did."

"But surely," I said, "her father, Mahindra, would be an elderly man now. This must have been some…"

"Thirty years ago," Thurlow finished with a nod. "Almost to the day. I was twenty and five at the time…and yes, the Rajah is in his eighties now."

"And yet, he is still powerful and vital enough that his arm can reach halfway across the world for his revenge?" I asked in surprise.

"No…" said Holmes quietly, catching me unawares. "Not half way across the world, Watson." Taking a newspaper off the neat pile on his desk, he opened it, turned to a specific page, before folding it over, and handing it to me. "The third paragraph down, second column."

"The society pages of last Friday's _Times_?" I queried, and then my eyes widened as I read aloud. "An eminent guest to London, a close friend of her Majesty and respected member of Indian society, His Highness Raj Annand Mahindra and entourage have taken an entire floor of suites at Claridges in London. The duration of their stay is unknown." I looked up at Holmes and then Thurlow.

"A close friend of her Majesty's?" I repeated quietly.

"Aye," said Thurlow, his accent escaping him again in his resignation. "As you can see, I am not the only one to have made headway in the world. And you can see why making allegations against him would be…awkward."

Despite my dislike of the man and the feeling that this was in part only justice, I nodded mutely in agreement.

"You spoke of others being in peril," Holmes reminded the man, steepling his fingers again. "I have yet to hear about them."

Thurlow nodded his red-haired head and reached into his dinner jacket, this time producing a piece of paper that looked to be from a book. After taking it, Holmes glanced over it, and then promptly handed it to me without a word. My assumption on receiving it was proven correct -- it was indeed from a book…the Good Book, in fact. It was a page from The Holy Bible, ripped unceremoniously and without respect from the Old Testament, and there highlighted and ringed were the words.

"_And if any mischief follow, then though shalt give life for life,  
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,  
Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe."_

"Exodus: 21 – 23-25…As you can see, the heathen savages defiled a Bible to make their point," Thurlow growled. "It was driven into the desk via this knife."

"Frankly, Mr. Thurlow," I said looking up from the page, "in comparison to some of the acts I have heard of this evening, _this_…" I held up the page, "hardly comes near the top of the scale in heathen savagery." My eyes met his, and we held a mutual glare until Holmes once again intervened.

"I take it therefore, Mr. Thurlow," he said casually, "that the like for like point made in this message to you refers to a life other than your own…a payback in kind…which would leave me to believe that they intended to take not only your life, if that, but the life of a child of yours?"

I blinked, not having thought of that. I was, up to that moment, heavily inclined to advise Holmes that I wished nothing to do with this case. That Thurlow had sown the wind, and should reap the whirlwind in kind…what happened to him would in my mind only be just, for, as a white man, he would never stand trial for what he had done in India and be found guilty. It had not occurred to me that there would be innocents involved. My glare turned to a quizzical frown at the man, whose eyes dropped from mine completely.

"Your sons?" I asked.

"Perhaps," he mused with a nod. "They are but seven years old…fine boys, good young lads, the type I have longed for all my life. I fear for them but also…" he trailed off again, his hands clasping nervously.

"Also?" Holmes prompted impatiently.

"They are not my only children," he disclosed almost reluctantly, causing me to frown and wonder what else this supposed bulwark of our business world had sunk to in his time, his tone telling me that it could not be good.

"You have a daughter," Holmes concluded, surprising us both once more. "Older…a young woman?"

Thurlow got over his surprise enough to nod. "Yes…I married three years after returning from India. A Miss Alice Pembridge…a beautiful, intelligent, loyal young woman of a better class of family then mine…well accepted in society, but impoverished. My wealth was the only thing, I'm sure, that allowed her family to give us permission to wed. I loved her…" He frowned to himself. "I did…but her family was as bad as all those officers I had once served with. They looked down on me, sneered at my manners and my attempts to better myself…it eventually took its toll on us. In addition, there was the issue of children."

The knuckles on his hands whitened as he spoke.

"I wanted sons…I needed them!" he ejaculated forcefully, as if justifying something to himself. "We had a child, a girl…Helen…a good girl, a pretty thing, very bright and intelligent for a girl. But I had a business, and Hamish was a bachelor with no chance of that changing…I needed someone to take over and run the business I had taken such risks and pains…sweated blood…to build! We tried for several more years, but it became clear that Alice could not bear any more children. Helen, our daughter, was fifteen and her mother in her mid thirties."

"So you left her…and your daughter," Holmes concluded over his fingers.

"Yes," he admitted, looking up at him. "I divorced her."

"_You _divorced _her_!" I exclaimed, shocked once more. "Because you could not have a son, you put her aside for inability to bear you an heir…you did not even let her divorce _you_ to help her keep her good name?"

"I had no time to waste on niceties!" Thurlow barked. "I had a growing empire of my own, and like any ruler had to take the expedient and best route for the future. Besides…Alice did not wish to divorce me. She…" He paused, his guilty look returning. "She loved me still. I put her aside, and married again soon after to my current wife, Ellen.

I turned away in disgust at this point, vowing not to look at the man again as he continued, "We had a son straight away, Barnaby…we lost him three years ago. He died of pleurisy at the age of six." He paused for a moment in reflection. "By that stage though, Ellen and I also had had the twins…Matthew and Andrew."

"I see…" Holmes said from beside me. "Well then, your first wife and daughter need to be informed of this threat. It seems, given the nature of what has occurred in the past, it is your daughter who will be most in danger. She and her mother must be brought to safety as must your younger family," he concluded, as he rose to his feet. "Where are they? Might they be brought to your home?"

Our visitor remained silent.

"Mr. Thurlow?" Holmes prompted, with his gaze fixed on him. "I asked where they are?"

"I…" His eyes remained on the ground. "I am unsure."

My vow lasted no longer than that, and I spun back to face him. "_Unsure?_" I declared. "How can you be unsure? Are they travelling?"

"I don't know," he replied, glancing only at the fire. "I lost touch with their whereabouts some time ago."

Holmes and I exchanged yet another look, and he sat back down again, leaving this next part to me at seeing the look on my face.

"Mr. Thurlow," I said in utter exasperation. "How can you have lost touch with them? Surely you must know of their whereabouts in order to support them?"

His silence spoke absolute volumes, causing me to stare at him and wonder about the make up of this man before us.

"You cut off your own daughter?" I breathed. "A child?"

"You don't understand!" he snapped, standing and moving to stand by the fireplace to stare into the dying fire. "I was all set to give Alice a large settlement that would keep her and Helen more than comfortable when her family and friends got involved, sniping at me, threatening me with lawyers and the like, baiting me, and smearing my name…so I fought back, I took them on, took on lawyers of my own and won!" His tone was defiant, but it lasted only a moment though, before it modified. "I have not seen Alice or Helen more than twice since then."

I shook my head slowly. "So you disowned your family…cut them loose to fend for themselves…merely to spite hers?" I breathed in disbelief.

"Alice had her precious family and friends," he muttered sullenly with the air of a spoiled child. "She was a good mother. I knew Helen would be fine."

I stiffened, and clasped my hands behind my back, my eyes and tone like ice. "Mr. Thurlow, sir…I tell you this honestly and directly, for all your desire to be accepted as an English gentleman, it is plain to see why such an acceptance has never come to pass. In all my years both as doctor, soldier, and colleague to Mr. Holmes here, I have never come across such a patently selfish and morally bankrupt man as yourself…and if were not for your wives, both present and past, and your three innocent children, I would say 'Goodnight, sir,' and ask you not to darken this door again!"

I nodded my head firmly, and then caught Holmes's rather surprised and admiring look. With a sniff, I nodded my head again in reply, and with a small smile he returned it and looked back at Thurlow, who had taken my words without reaction.

"I believe, Mr. Thurlow, that we are in agreement about taking your case…if not for you, then for the sake of the innocents in your family." He stood up again. "Beyond proving the Rajah's malicious intent towards you, and discovering how it was he was able to plant such a message in the heart of your business premises without his hand being seen, our first step is to secure the safety of your wider family," he stated firmly. "Return to your wife and sons, but first…" Holmes reached into his desk and took out a small note pad on which he hastily scribbled a name and address, which he tore off and handed to Thurlow. "Go to this address in Watford and ask for this man, Bill Fagan. Tell him Mr. Holmes sent you, and ask him for five of his best men…offer to pay them well…and bring them home with you."

Thurlow looked up from the paper to Holmes. "Hired men?"

"Bodyguards," Holmes confirmed. "Seeing as you do not wish to bring the police into this, and without your testimony as to what happened in the past, we cannot apply to Scotland Yard for protection for you…hired men will have to do. They are…rough mannered," he admitted, "but well enough behaved not to scandalize your wife and servants, and they are very, very good at what they do." He paused for a moment and turned his head to address me, "Watson, take your pistol and go with Mr. Thurlow, will you? It is best that he is not left alone."

Despite my loathing for the man, I put aside my personal feelings and nodded as Holmes turned back to his desk. "Of course, Holmes," I replied.

"There is no need," the other man spoke up. "I am not alone…my young secretary, Mr. Harry Hant, is waiting in my carriage outside."

Holmes considered this without turning around. "Good…nevertheless, I would be happier if Watson went with you," he asserted. "In the meantime, I will begin the search for your first wife and daughter." He looked back over his shoulder at our new client. "Might you know if they still used the name Thurlow, or did your wife revert to her maiden name of Pembridge?"

Thurlow looked up slowly from the name on the paper he had returned to staring at. "To the best of my knowledge she retained my name…Helen was still a Thurlow, after all," he responded quietly, and reached for his coat, sliding it on as he saw me go to fetch mine from across the room. "How will you start?"

"Some discreet enquiries should be more than enough to uncover them, unless they have gone to ground or left the city…" Holmes answered with a shrug. "I will have them come here. One useful part of your having lost touch with them is that it makes it less likely that your prospective assailants know their whereabouts either. However, as they have been here since last Friday, I suggest they probably have been making their own enquiries and are making headway; therefore the sooner we locate them and bring them to safety, the better."

"Do you intend that we should all be kept safe together?" Thurlow asked him curiously, closing his coat.

"I do," my colleague replied shortly.

"I…am…unsure how my wife…Ellen," he clarified almost nervously, "will take to having Alice and Helen in her home."

"That, Mr. Thurlow …" Holmes turned back to him with a short exhalation of air, "is_ entirely_ your own problem. Good evening, and I will see you again as soon as I have located your daughter." With that, he sat down and turned away, dismissing him and leaving me to head out as protector in chief on our latest case.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: We, the authors, wanted to say a couple of things just in case. The timeline used for this story, for there will be others, is Baring-Gould's official timeline. Yes, we know there is another out there too…but I have not had time to research it fully, and if it turns out better, then we will be changing any clashing dates. Just something to keep in mind. I also wanted to say why Holmes has hazel eyes (mostly because they may be another color, but I'm having a hard time finding the canon reference…and we have researched the canon, never fear. :) ), my reasoning is that it is a dedication to the Late Jeremy Brett, who had hazel eyes, and for me (and my co-writer) he will always be who we see when we picture Holmes._**

_**Thank you so much for reading, and we welcome all reviews. Aeryn (of aerynfire) **_


	2. A Prize Catch

**_Chapter Two:_ _A Prize Catch_**

I returned home to Baker Street shortly after one in the morning, and after some considerable trouble hailing another cab for the journey home from Watford. I had left Mr. Thurlow and his secretary, Harry, an exceptionally handsome young man of around thirty with raven black hair and remarkably piercing blue eyes, and as affable and mannerly as his employer was gruff and ill tempered, in the company of five of the biggest men I had ever witnessed gathered together in one place. I would venture to say their collective strength would've been enough to pull the carriage I travelled home in at an even quicker pace than the horses that did the job.

In addition, the vast array of billy clubs, knuckle dusters, knives, and pistols they carried would have scared a regiment of dragoons, never mind me. Mr. William Fagan, a Kerryman and heavyweight boxer of no small renown in his time, however, had drilled them all in relatively courteous behaviour, knowing that gentlemen -- while wanting a man of thuggish brutality as a bodyguard -- did not want one of thuggish mentality around their homes. As a result, I feared not for the reaction of Mr. Thurlow's current wife and children.

It would take a brave man to take on any of these men, I thought. Thurlow, though he hardly deserved it, should sleep peaceably in his bed that night.

I was all set for such a fate myself on returning to Baker Street, only to find the light still burning in the study and Holmes still wide awake, having returned to examining the knife and torn Bible page left to him by Thurlow.

"Ah, Watson," he greeted me without turning, as I entered to check on him. "I trust Mr. Fagan provided what we required."

"Indeed," I responded, removing my gloves and hat, "and more. His coterie of friends is quite impressive." I exhaled with wide eyes and a shake of my head as a small chuckle escaped my friend as he turned.

"Very true, my dear Doctor…very true. However, Bill Fagan is, in his own way, a remarkable force for good in this city, despite his standing army. By rehabilitating thugs and offering employment to aging boxers and bare knuckle fighters, he has kept many a man from the criminal path and put them onto a better living. His men are highly trained and, most crucially, have been taught to use their heads rather than their fists…something I think we shall need in this case." He stood and stretched, moving from his desk. "You will find, too, that I have not been idle while you have been out protecting our client."

"Odious man," I responded, flopping rather unceremoniously down on the couch.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Yes…it is unsurprising, given his behaviour, that it has come to this. If the world we lived in were more just, he would already be behind bars for his activity…but for the sake of his children and his wives, both present and past, we must pursue this case."

Yawning broadly, I nodded in agreement.

"To that end, I have already begun the search for the erstwhile Mrs. and current Miss Thurlow," he announced, as he stood near the embers of the fire.

"You have?" I looked up at him with a touch of surprise. "At this hour of night?"

"The members of our fourth estate are generally accessible, like physicians, at all hours," he replied, picking up the poker and stirring the last few flames into life.

"You contacted the press?" I asked, my eyes blinking in amazement. "Isn't that a little risky given what you said earlier about them searching for her too?"

"I have no intention of using the newspapers…just their manpower. The City Room of the major metropolitan newspapers, such as _The Times_, _The Express_, and _The Star_ are always open, and considering what good press I have given them, the gentlemen of the press have agreed to use their not inconsiderable connections to trace the current members of the Pembridge family in London, and on finding them, pass along a message about an inheritance and the urgent need to contact myself here."

"An inheritance?" I queried, as my brow furrowed in confusion.

"What else would you call the sins of your father being visited upon you?" he returned, looking over at me wryly.

"Ah…" I agreed with a rueful smile, "I see your point."

"Tomorrow, I shall send out the Irregulars…if the Pembridges are as impoverished as Thurlow has led us to believe, then no doubt some debts will have been accrued, and knowing the tendency towards their use by the down at heel upper classes, the local pawn shops will probably have leads…our doughty lads will no doubt sniff them out." He put the poker down. "You and I shall stay in case our quarry comes to us…and research both the society pages and something more about the culture and history of Northern India to see what we can expect."

I yawned again. "Very good, Holmes…but now I think I shall retire to my bed; tonight turned out to be longer than I thought."

"Yes, probably best that you be at your sharpest, Watson. We shall have an interesting day tomorrow," he ventured, that sparkle that had been absent in his eye earlier this evening having fully returned. His gaze turned towards the papers I had been working on earlier. "Don't forget to take your latest foray into purple prose with you…" he sniffed, shaking his head. "Honestly, Watson, _A Scandal in Bohemia_?" He raised his eyebrow at the title before turning away.

Hiding a smile and a chuckle at his latest protestation, I headed up to bed.

* * *

The following evening, after another round of subtle inquiries had been launched just after breakfast for the whereabouts of Thurlow's daughter via the sending out of the Baker Street Irregulars and society articles, and the rest of the day had been spent both in research into both Hindustani culture and any other vital facts that may have eluded us in this case, I found myself eating a well earned meal of roast chicken and potatoes.

Holmes, on the other hand, had taken up residence once more in his favourite chair by the fireplace, knees brought up to his chin, and his calabash pipe firmly set between his teeth as he puffed regularly on it.

"I say, Holmes," I said, breaking the silence, "Mrs. Hudson has really outdone herself this evening. You must try this fowl...most delicious." It always worried me that when on a case, he often either ate heartily or refused to eat at all. It was no wonder that after a particularly gruelling investigation, he would be levelled to the point of exhaustion.

"Please," my friend returned, wrinkling his nose at the smell, "I could not stomach a bite." He paused as he glanced across. "Not that there'll be much left when you're done, I'll warrant."

With a short huff, I turned back to my plate. "You should really eat, Holmes. It will do you no good to stretch yourself too thin this early in the investigation."

"I'll eat when I'm hungry, Watson, and not before; now concentrate on your food rather than behaving like a nagging wife, will you man?" He continued to puff on his pipe with a frown and distant eyes.

Knowing it was useless to argue with him, I had set about carving my breast of chicken when there was a quick rap at the door.

Taking his pipe out, Holmes looked at the source of the unexpected interruption. "Come in, Mrs. Hudson."

The door opened quietly to reveal our landlady, who took one look at the empty plate on the table and turned to my companion with a disapproving eyebrow. "There's a lady to see you, Mr. Holmes," she informed him with a peeved note in her voice, clearly due to his lack of eating.

"A lady you say...young or old, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked quickly, sitting forward.

"Young, I should think...well...mid twenties?" she replied. "Impeccable manners...a real lady, I should think, though her clothes don't quite reflect affluence."

Holmes looked across the room. "Watson, I believe we may have landed ourselves the one that got away..." he enthused, and rose to his feet. "Show her up, Mrs. Hudson! Show her up at once!"

The older woman gave him a quick nod and disappeared back through the door, while I, for my part, hurriedly stood and made my way to my writing desk so as to record any relevant facts.

A moment later, there was another quick knock at the door, which opened swiftly after to find Mrs. Hudson leading a young woman into our sitting room.

She was young, but no child -- despite her youthful looks, tempered by an air of worldliness the young do not possess, and though simply dressed in a simple dusky blue skirt and jacket and high collared cream coloured blouse, she possessed a gracefulness that was rarely found in a woman who was not, as Mrs. Hudson had put it, a lady.

She was a handsome woman. If not quite a raving beauty, she would still easily catch a man's eye. Her hair was a shade of deep auburn, such that light, even in the dimming sunlight that entered our room, made it almost glow with a dazzling reddish hue...but that was not the most astounding thing about her. For in truth, it was her eyes. They were a deep shade of grey, and had an almost calming look to them which hid a profoundly perceptive quality that flashed as she took in her surroundings. She was clearly her father's daughter, but whereas our client's eyes had been full of resentment and arrogance, hers merely took you in and analyzed you without judgment.

It was those eyes that were regarding both me and my companion by the fireplace. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she asked; her voice soft but with a faint musical lilt to it.

"Yes," Holmes replied, his hazel eyes scrutinizing her closely. "That is I...Miss?" he queried.

She turned and held out her gloved hand to him. "My name is Helen Thurlow. I believe you wished to see me?" she inquired.

"Ah!" Holmes's face became slightly smug as he moved across the room and took her hand. "Yes indeed, you are quite correct, Miss Thurlow. May I present my esteemed friend and colleague Dr. John Watson. Watson, Miss Helen Thurlow." His eyes twinkled at me victoriously.

"How do you do, Miss Thurlow," I managed to greet her, as she inclined her head to me in return before turning back to Holmes.

"It is a pleasure, I'm sure," she returned, her tone polite and gentle. "I am most curious as to the reason you wished to see me. As far as I am aware, given my circumstances and of those of others that I know, I could hardly be the recipient of any inheritance...especially one that would require handling from two such esteemed gentlemen as yourselves. I am intensely puzzled as to what this could be about. However, I'm afraid I must hasten this meeting...the hour is growing late, and I misjudged how long it would take me to arrive here. My mother is not well, and will worry if I am gone too long."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," Holmes assured her quickly. "We will be returning to your mother together once this short meeting is over." He ushered her towards a chair by the fire. "Have you eaten, Miss Thurlow?" he asked, sitting down opposite her.

She shook her head, as she seated herself. "No, but do not concern yourself with that...my meal awaits me at home."

"Tea, then?" he inquired, sitting back in his chair.

She seemed to be evaluating him as surely as he was scrutinizing her. "No, thank you," she demurred.

"Very well," he said quickly. "Then, let us get down to business." He tapped his pipe against his hand and threw the ash into the fire. "Miss Thurlow, we must apologize to you, as we have brought you here under false pretences. You are quite correct…there is no inheritance...at least not in the strictest sense of the word."

She gave a short nod. "I thought as much. However, as I said before, my curiosity has won out in this case."

Holmes nodded, reseating himself in his chair. "And just as well, Miss Thurlow, for in this case it may have well proven your saviour."

A most inquisitive light shone in her eyes. "My saviour?" she queried, glancing at me for confirmation, and after I gave her a quick nod, her eyes moved back to my companion once more.

"When I said inheritance, it was not in the strictest sense true...however it remains an unfortunate fact that you, as your father's daughter, have inherited something of his making." He crossed his feet and stretched out his legs, still watching her closely. "Miss Thurlow, I am afraid that due to the dealings of your father in the past, your life, and perhaps that of your mother, are now in danger, and we have been requested by your father to find you and bring you and your mother to safety."

She stared at him a full minute with a look of utter disbelief before repeating, "My father?"

Holmes nodded, moving his pipe to his mouth once more.

I watched as the young woman straightened in her chair and narrowed her eyes. "My _father..._requested...I be brought to safety...my mother too? I find that rather hard to believe, Mr. Holmes, since I have not seen the man in ten years."

Holmes removed his pipe but held it close to his mouth. "That's as may be, Miss Thurlow, but when it comes to matters of life and death, even an estranged father might be prompted to make his way back into the life of his child again."

She gazed at him steadily for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. "Life and death? Now, he chooses to be concerned? He wasn't very concerned when he expelled us from our home without a penny to our names...nor concerned when my mother nearly died soon after." She stood and moved over to the window, her body seeming to shake with barely suppressed anger. "So, he has done something that is now affecting us all...I am not the least bit surprised."

She turned back to us, her eyes flickering over each of us briefly. "It has always been that way with him...a rash decision here...a moment without thinking there. Some of which, I am sure, paid off. The rest..." she paused, turning to gaze out into the street, "were left to other people to deal with the mess."

Holmes tapped the mouthpiece of his pipe against his upper lip. "Ah…you refer, of course, to your father's divorcing of your mother and remarrying in search of a son and heir?"

She turned back and gazed at him with what would have been an almost bemused expression if not for the hint of anger in her eyes. "I see you encouraged him to confess his role in that matter...but search? No...that was one of the main factors of the divorce...his mistress was already with child."

I inhaled sharply at the new revelation, even as she continued, "Ellen...a woman from a good family, though she herself was not of their ilk...is a woman who gets what she wants, and will scheme and plot in order to get it." She paused and inhaled deeply. "And she wanted my father, or rather the money my father possesses and the power and prestige that goes with it. She knew he wanted a son, and my mother was incapable of having another child...in fact, ordered by the doctors to not even attempt to do so after her eighth miscarriage. So, Ellen saw her chance."

Holmes remained still for a moment, and then questioned of her, "And yet your mother did not contest the divorce? She allowed herself to be divorced...rather than divorce your father and keep her good name?"

The young woman sighed, the anger draining out of her, and shook her head. "No one is completely evil, and I have never thought that of Arthur Thurlow either. Even though he has done things I cannot forgive, I cannot wholly hate him either. He is overly prideful, perhaps because of his harsh childhood and struggles to be accepted, but he is deeply flawed with a strong divide in his personality." She sighed quietly. "In a way, he reminds me always of Henry the Eighth -- many admirable qualities, but many pitiless and hateful. My father is an odd man, capable of unthinking cruelty and incredible selfishness, but…also of a great generosity of spirit as well as largesse. If I remember rightly, he supports the arts and has a very generous charitable foundation, and is sincere in his patronage."

She sighed once more, a small frown creasing her brow. "He was, strange as it is to say now, a very good father until the day he left. All of which made it all the crueller, I feel. And my parents were well suited…for a time at least. He gave her strength, and she gave him gentility and calmness. My mother...she loved him deeply, and hoped, foolishly in my opinion, that he would see the error of his ways. Thanks to his wounded pride, however, he hired the best lawyers money could buy...and we had none to spare. In the end...it broke her." Her last words came out almost as a whisper.

I stood up to help her, but she waved me back to my chair. Re-gathering herself, she continued, "My mother hasn't been the same since. She suffers from a state of deep melancholy...I believe it is called a depression. Most days, it is hard just to get her out of bed, let alone for her to speak to another soul. She's retreated inside herself..." The young woman swallowed and moved over to the couch, sitting slowly as she seemed to again focus on gathering her thoughts. "A couple of months after the divorce was final, I found my mother in the bathtub...she...she'd..." She trailed off, staring at her wrists, before resuming. "She almost died...but we had no money to spare to pay for a doctor, so after she was released from the hospital...I had to find a way to work from home so as to care for her."

I closed my eyes as my heart bled with sympathy for this poor woman and her mother, all they had gone through, and all because her detestable father refused to part with a shilling just to spite relations that seemed to hardly factor in the picture at all.

Holmes nodded slowly, his expression enigmatic and unfathomable. "You have my sympathies, Miss Thurlow. However, your father's actions, while undoubtedly reprehensible in the extreme towards you and your mother, Miss Thurlow, are mild in comparison to what you are about to hear, I'm afraid. I would ask you to steel yourself in that regard as well as for the possible consequences."

Her head rose, her eyes shifting from her hands to his eyes once more, and, with a nod, seemed to gather an inner strength I found astounding in one who had gone through so much already. Her back straight, hands folded, and her face set, she merely said, "Very well, what have you to tell me?"

Over the course of the next few minutes, Holmes recounted, in as much detail as her father had given us, the gruesome details of her father's former profession and his hand in the death of the Princess Mahindra, sparing her nothing, and stopping only after outlining the arrival of her father in London and the discovery of the Khukuri knife and the warning extract from the Bible, leaving us all in no doubt that a like for like revenge was being planned. "And so," he concluded, sitting back once more, "it is, I'm afraid, crucial for your protection in particular but also that of your mother, that you be brought in for protective purposes to somewhere safe where you can be watched over." Slipping his pipe back to his mouth, Holmes watched and waited for her reaction to the near avalanche of information he had just bombarded her with.

Miss Thurlow just sat for a moment, and I could almost hear her mind analysing each part, resolving it, and filing it away, until finally, she swallowed lightly and stood. "Very well, Mr. Holmes...it seems that I find myself and my life in your hands. However, in the instance of my mother...I do not think it wise to move her. Is there a way she can be guarded at our home? I do not think she is in as much, if any, danger. What would be the point of harming her? This Rajah wants revenge, and there can be little meaning in killing an ex-wife who is no longer even thought of by his victim."

Holmes shook his head determinedly in reply. "I am sorry, Miss Thurlow, but it is impossible. We cannot take the chance on dividing our attentions. You would be loathe to leave her behind, and it would mean offering our culprits two targets rather than one. And even if you were to leave her, we cannot say for sure that they wouldn't target her just to cause mental anguish...or...to flush you out for her funeral," he pointed out bluntly, as he stood and refilled his pipe. "She, like you, must come with us tonight...to your father's home in Belgravia."

Her eyes widened. "Go...to _his_ home?"

Packing his pipe loosely, he picked up a tapir, and lit it from the fire. "Yes," he agreed with a nod. "It is where he and his household are currently under armed guard." Holmes put flame to tobacco, and began to draw on it slowly until white fragrant smoke began to waft through the air once more. "I wish I could give you better news, Miss Thurlow, but I cannot...the best I can say is that your father is genuinely concerned for your welfare, as much as he is for his own on this occasion."

"I...I must trust your judgment, I fear," she acquiesced, turning away from him a little, but I could see she was very troubled by the evening's revelations. "I will hurry home and pack, and try and explain this to my mother."

"Would you like me to hail you a cab?" I offered.

"No." Holmes cut across me quickly. "We will be accompanying you."

She blinked in surprise, but her brow quickly slipped into a frown. "Please, Mr. Holmes, I really feel it is best if you perhaps meet me there. My mother does not do well at all around people she does not know...and she will be most unsettled as it is. I beg you, give me a short period...please," she entreated. "Let me at least give her a chance to prepare."

I found myself nodding at the sense in her words. "Holmes, it may be wise to acquiesce to her request. If her mother is disturbed, it may be worth the short time for the extra speed it will create in the long run."

"I am sorry, Miss Thurlow." He glanced at me with a firm look. "We cannot let you travel alone from this point on. You must understand something clearly..." he explained, turning his eyes back to her. "Your father has been watched carefully. That is the only way someone could have breached his offices to leave so brazen a warning. You may rest assured that he was probably watched on coming here...and we are, even now, probably being watched to see if we can retrieve you." He put his pipe down, as he paused. "Having done so successfully, and identified you, we cannot now let you or your mother out of protective custody until this matter is resolved. I am sorry for your mother's state...but it must be this way. Watson is a physician and may help in this regard, but we will both be going with you." His tone was final as he turned away from her.

Crossing over to her side, I took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I promise to do what I can for your mother to make this as easy on her as possible," I vowed gallantly, and was gifted with a grateful smile in return.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," she replied, her voice trembling slightly as she struggled to remain calm. "But if we are to go, then we should go soon. I have been away for longer than I intended, and she _will_ be growing anxious."

"Then let us go," Holmes said curtly, tapping his pipe out over the fire. "The more haste the better, for my liking." Moving to the small coat rack by the door, he gazed at it for a moment before turning in my direction. "Watson, do you have your pistol?"

Releasing her hand, I moved over to my desk drawer and retrieved my revolver and bullets. Loading it quickly, I gave him a quick nod.

"Good -- go inform Mrs. Hudson we shall be gone for the better part of the evening, and flag down a cab, there's a good chap. I shall remain with Miss Thurlow until you have done so." Moving to put on his overcoat and hat, he withdrew a cane from the umbrella stand as I moved to the door, shrugged on my coat, and placed my bowler hat on my head.

"Cab?" she inquired with a frown.

"Yes..." he replied absently as he drew on his coat. "Something large enough for four and trunks, Watson," he mused, before turning his head to her. "Do you have a difficulty with that, Miss Thurlow?"

I gave a quick nod and turned to go, only be stopped by her explaining with extreme nervousness, "But, Mr. Holmes...I'm afraid I can't afford a cab..."

Holmes blinked in surprise. "Miss Thurlow...you shall not be paying."

I, for my part, tried to not look astounded at her revelation. Considering how many cabs Holmes and I utilized in a day, the expense never seemed to occur to either of us...to be so impoverished that a cab would be considered unaffordable…

She seemed to look a little relieved, but still unsure. "I do not live too far...only a fifteen-minute walk..."

Holmes waved off her worries as he buttoned his coat. "If it helps assuage your fears, neither Watson nor I shall be paying either...in the long run at least. You may rest assured that every expense accrued on this case will be coming from the purse of one Mr. Arthur Wendell Thurlow...as part of our rather exorbitant case fee." A small smirk played around his lips as he looked at her. "You may even tip the cabbie most heavily if you wish."

A faint blush spread over her cheeks. "I apologize...it is just...well...I haven't been in a cab in eight years," she explained with embarrassment.

"Then, Miss Thurlow, it's high time that was rectified. Watson?" Holmes exclaimed expectantly.

Meeting my friend's eyes for a moment, sure that utter sympathy was in mine, I nodded and rushed down the stairs to the street to hail one of the largest cabs I could find. If that poor woman had not had the chance to travel off her own feet in eight years, then, by Jove, I was going to make sure she travelled home in style.

A hansom cab, too small for our purposes with room with only for two, passed by, but was soon followed by a luxurious looking 'Growler' with four wheels to the hansom's two, trundling noisily over the city streets and pulled by two fine ebony horses. Hailing down the cab, I was pleased to see a plush, roomy, well maintained interior with velvet lined walls and curtains. There was plenty of room on the back and top for trunks; in all, it was eminently suitable for our purposes.

Asking the cab driver to wait, I darted back inside and called up the stairs to Holmes and our charge that our cab was waiting out front, before going to Mrs. Hudson to explain our absence for the rest of the evening.

Holmes escorted Miss Thurlow down and out the front door, moving her quickly into the cab, and stopping only to give directions to 45 Bayham Street in Camden Town before climbing in after to sit opposite her.

Checking the street quickly, I too climbed in and took a seat next to Holmes, trying to keep a pleased grin off my face as our charge took in our transport with wide eyes, while it headed speedily out of Baker Street and along Marylebone Road before turning north towards Camden Town.

"What are you looking so smug for, man?" Holmes questioned me with a frown. As Miss Thurlow ran her fingers over the seat, her eyes on the plush fabric, I gestured over to her with my head in answer.

My friend's eyes moved to her and watched her for a long moment, before he drew in and released a deep breath and turned his eyes back to the street without any perceptible change in expression.

After a fashion, her eyes looked over and met mine, a shy smile pulling on her lips at being caught out. "I must look rather foolish," she murmured.

"Not at all," I assured her, returning her smile.

Her gaze ran over the interior of the cab and rested on Holmes for a brief moment before turning back to me. "It is just the little things, I think, that you learn to appreciate when they are no longer available to you," she mused. "I have been walking, even when carrying the dresses I stitch, for many, many years...this..." She gestured to the cab. "Even in the middle of winter, I did not dare...not when by doing so meant we would not have enough wood for the fire or even have a roof over our heads."

Again, I felt my heart break in sympathy.

"Yes..." Holmes muttered, "and if it's bad to have these things and lose them, think what it must be like never to have them at all." His eyes lit on a beggar girl standing on a corner, as the carriage headed north beyond the refinement of Regents Park and into the more tumbledown environs of Camden Town.

She turned and followed his gaze, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I did not say that to make you pity me, Mr. Holmes," she replied, feeling, I'm sure, a little stung by the chastising remark. "I only wished to thank you both for the one luxury I can appreciate in this entire mess."

Holmes turned his eyes back to her. "There is no need to thank us for this...or anything. We are merely doing our job."

She held his eyes for a moment, and I, again, could tell that she was re-evaluating her judgment of him, before she turned away with a nod to gaze out the window opposite his. "Of course," she replied, her tone more blank than previously, and my brow creased a little at his, in my opinion, overly brusque manner with her.

"Watson," my companion continued, "when we reach Miss Thurlow's home and you enter with her, go and check the back entrance before attending with her on her mother. I will stand guard at the front." He returned his attention to her. "Miss Thurlow, pack only what you need for now...we can return if needs be to fetch more of your things. There is no need of frippery and other women's foolishness." When he received no immediate response, he tapped his cane on the carriage floor irritably. "Miss Thurlow, are you heeding what I say?" he demanded.

She turned her head back to him and nodded. "I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I own no such...frippery. But, I shall, of course, make haste."

"I am pleased to hear it," he responded, "but I believe I shall have Watson ensure that speed is made paramount. Women and time keeping, when packing is concerned, are a bad mix."

Her eyes narrowed and her chin rose, as she sat back straight against the seat. "That, I believe, is a generalization, Mr. Holmes. Not all women are alike. It would be good for you to keep that in mind," she returned, and I sensed she had indeed inherited something else from her father...forthrightness as well as a temper, though she was doing a much more admirable job reigning it in than he had.

"I shall," Holmes assured her, "as soon as I find a woman who escapes that general observation."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "It is the specific idiosyncrasies that make up an individual, Mr. Holmes. If you focus too greatly on the generalities, then you will only be causing a disservice to yourself. Instead of automatically searching for the fault, try seeing the reasons behind the behaviour."

"The reasons behind women's idiosyncrasies and behaviours are easily named, Miss Thurlow," he replied, as the carriage turned onto Bayham Road. "Women are, quite simply, scatterbrained. Their minds jump and flit from one item to another without pause, and their capacity for rational, linear thinking is for the most part non existent. Their brains were made for other things. This is a natural occurrence and not a mere generality, as you would wish it to be."

I had opened my mouth to try and cease any impending hostilities when, a moment later, the carriage slid to a halt outside a tiny brick residence. Opening the door, Holmes stepped out and looked around before turning and offering her his hand.

I sighed inwardly, still surprised at Holmes' attitude towards her, as I watched her face retain its careful composure when she placed her hand in his.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes...if that is what you truly believe, though I, for one, cannot agree with you," she returned, stepping down from the carriage, her eyes sweeping the street quickly. "I would suggest a debate, but you seem to have made your mind up in the matter." She released his hand and strode over the pavement to a door, pulling out a set of keys from her pocket as she reached it.

Holmes looked around the street carefully before turning to look back inside the carriage, and, to my surprise, he had a noticeable smile playing about his features, his eyes positively dancing. "Well, Watson..." he said in hushed tones, "at least she's not dwelling on her circumstances, her father, those revelations, or the death threat hanging over her anymore, eh?" Composing his features once more, he stepped away from the carriage, taking in the area with a serious expression.

Blinking and stepping out of the carriage, I shot him a bemused look. "I believe you enjoyed provoking her," I asserted lightly, my own eyes sweeping over the buildings and street.

"Distracting, Watson...distracting. With what lies ahead, better she be annoyed with me than afraid or morose, and _enjoyment _had nothing to do with it," he sniffed. "Now inside, and check the back quickly."

Casting him a look which clearly showed I didn't believe the latter part of his assertion for a second, I darted inside after her, heading toward the back of the building, to make sure that there was no one up to any foul play. Spying not a soul, I returned inside and headed up the stairs to the fourth floor where Miss Thurlow and her mother resided.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: Just a note to say a huge thank you to all that have reviewed thus far, and those who may later. We appreciate all your kind words and enthusiastic comments. :) Just, as a side comment, our Watson does sound a bit Edward Hardwicke-ish…I never really realized it till it was pointed out, but I can see why. He was the first Watson I saw with Brett, and though I loved David Burke's portrayal as well, Hardwicke has always stayed with me. I would also like to point out a huge kudos to my co-writer LFire, who is responsible for all the details and research into Indian side of this story and makes Mr. Thurlow not completely evil and one-sided. She has really sunk her teeth into this, and it shows. :) Thanks again, and most kind wishes to all! Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**


	3. Family Reunion

_**Chapter Three: Family Reunion**_

About twenty minutes later, with Miss Thurlow on one side and I on the other, we led the trembling, vacant eyed Mrs. Alice Thurlow down the narrow flight of stairs to the waiting cab below. She had barely made any move to protest. In fact, when we arrived, she barely had moved at all, remaining at her chair by the window as she looked into the increasingly darkening street.

It was only after Miss Thurlow had finished packing for herself and her mother, which, truth be told, only took her about ten minutes, and we attempted to coax the older woman from her chair, that I was shown just how she felt about strangers.

She had gone, to all intents and purposes, hysterical, screaming incoherently until her daughter had managed to assuage her fear that she would be sent away and assure her that all would be well. The young woman had then turned and asked if I did not mind taking the three bags down first, to which to I immediately acquiesced, sensing she needed a private moment with her mother to explain fully what was to come.

Leaving the luggage at the bottom of the stairs, I climbed the four floors back to their rooms to find the younger Thurlow leading her mother into the sitting room. To say I was stunned at the transformation in front of me would have been an understatement. The lady had gone from quiet and disconnected to sobbing and fearful and back to disconnected once more, and there was a slackness and vacancy to her expression that was most disconcerting, as if she had totally retreated into her own mind.

As we reached the bottom of the stairway, Miss Thurlow's eyes again turned to me with a look of gratitude tinged with a deep sadness. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," she whispered softly, as I let go of her mother's arm to open the outer door for them. I merely gave her a reassuring nod as she slowly drew her mother outside into the warm August night and the waiting carriage, while I darted back inside to retrieve the bags.

Holmes turned as the door opened and took a step back on seeing the Thurlows emerge, before moving to hold the door open for the women while they entered the carriage, staying silent, aware of the distress the older woman was obviously in.

The cabbie looked down from up on top of the carriage, also quick to catch Mrs. Thurlow's state. "Where are we 'eading to, sir?"

"To Belgrave Square, number 12," Holmes replied, catching the look of surprise on the driver's face, who had at first most certainly expected to be heading to some kind of sanatorium given the condition of his latest passenger, and secondly, little experience of going from somewhere like a ramshackle building in Camden Town to the plushest of surroundings in Belgrave Square.

"Right you are, sir," he voiced with a nod.

"Watson!" Holmes called out. "Do you need a hand with those bags?"

I shook my head as I joined him at the carriage. "No, Holmes," I replied, placing the three large carpet bags inside the transport with a glance at our two charges, one who continued to stare vacantly into space, while the other helped me manoeuvre the luggage to the far side so that Holmes and I would be able to enter unfettered. Glancing back at my companion, I too entered the carriage and took my seat.

Taking in the street one last time, Holmes tapped the side of the growler to indicate to the cabbie to take off, as he too moved inside and took up his former position opposite Helen Thurlow, his eyes going to her mother. He scrutinised the hold she had on her daughter, her shivering form and blank eyed look, before turning back to our younger charge. "I am sorry to have to do this to her, Miss Thurlow, but there is little option, I'm afraid," he said quietly, his gentle tone at odds with his earlier brusqueness with the young woman.

For her part, she merely looked over at my companion for a moment, her gaze seeming to soften as she judged his sincerity. "We both understand it needs to be done," she replied, glancing quickly at her mother, who was staring at the space between Holmes's and my heads as if we were not even present. "I think she is protecting herself in some way from having to see him again...which if I may request, we keep to an absolute minimum, if at all." I glanced down to where she was gently stroking her mother's hand to see a flash of a line white scar tissue just above her glove line, the evidence of her deep seated melancholy.

"We shall make the request of Mr. Thurlow, you may be sure," Holmes replied, folding his hands around the top of his cane. "But living in such close quarters in his home may prove problematic for achieving absolute apartheid. I shall request that you be allowed to share a room with your mother to make sure she is as comfortable as possible."

"Thank you," she replied with utter sincerity before turning her gaze out the window, while my eyes moved back to her mother to find, to my shock, she was staring directly at me.

Her eyes were almost amber in hue, and, for a moment I could have sworn an oath that I saw a flash of awareness in them before they wandered almost lazily away to fix on my companion.

Holmes returned her gaze with a softness not often seen in his hawkish, hazel eyes. There was nothing as condescending as pity there, merely a strange personal sort of understanding at the depths to which depression could drive a human being and something that looked like encouragement...even though the chances of it reaching her were slim.

After a moment, as expected, with no sign of recognition or even that she even noticed he was there, she turned her head back to her previous position and did not move again for the rest of the journey.

It was deepest twilight by the time the carriage pulled up outside number 12 Belgrave Square. The beautiful sandstone buildings were lit by the myriad of lamplights outside, the central park in the square quiet and serene. The lights in the homes of some of the most vaunted of English society were just beginning to come on in earnest when Holmes opened the carriage door and dismounted, to turn back to us inside. "Watson and I shall go in to prepare the way, Miss Thurlow. You remain here to prepare your mother as best you can. Cabbie?" he called up. "Remove the ladies' bags, and I shall pay you directly after."

"Right, sir," the cab driver returned before climbing down to follow my colleague's instructions.

"Watson?" Holmes summoned me, as he turned and moved to the wide steps of the huge edifice. In fact, it most certainly dwarfed the one in which Miss Thurlow and her mother shared one small flat.

I nodded, and, after reaching over and giving Miss Thurlow's hand a quick squeeze, exited the carriage and followed my companion up the stairs.

Ringing the door bell, Holmes exhaled and turned slightly. "This shall undoubtedly be fraught on many levels, Watson," he stated, and I shot him a quick look of affirmation as I struggled to keep my face composed.

The door opened, and a tall, angular looking butler stood there. He had a receding hairline and the usual firm yet enquiring expression, but rather wide, gentle brown eyes. "Gentlemen...ah..." He stopped. "Of course, Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?" he quizzed.

"Yes," Holmes agreed with a nod.

The butler stepped back. "I am Goodwin, the butler. Come in, gentlemen. The Master left instructions that you were to be admitted as soon as you arrived."

"Goodwin," Holmes said, "we have not arrived alone. It is most urgent that I speak with Mr. Thurlow and his wife directly...in the meantime, come with me." He beckoned to the butler, who looked rather startled and mystified as Holmes led the man out and down to the carriage. "Might there be somewhere private you can place these ladies while Dr. Watson and I speak with your master?"

Goodwin looked into the carriage and blinked, before his eyes widened incredulously. "Miss Helen?" he asked in breathy surprise, his look turning slightly to that of shock. "Mrs. Thurlow?"

Gently extraditing herself from her mother's hand, the younger woman stepped quietly out of the carriage. "Hello, Goodwin," she greeted the butler. "I am pleased to see you well."

Goodwin looked her over, shaking his head, before remembering himself. "Forgive me, Miss. It's just the last time I saw you, you were only beginning your journey into young womanhood." He paused, a smiled playing lightly on his mouth. "If you'll pardon the impertinence, Miss, you achieved the transition most charmingly," he complimented, inclining his head politely.

She gave him a very genuine and heartfelt smile in return. "Not at all, Goodwin...and thank you," she replied, the gentle softness of her voice strengthening.

His gaze moved behind her and back, concern flooding his face. "And Mrs. Thurlow, Miss?" he enquired tentatively, fully aware even from his brief glance that she was unwell.

Our younger charge's face struggled to remain level, though her eyes spoke volumes. "My mother...has been better," she answered gravely.

Goodwin nodded, his look growing solemn and determined. "I shall see to it she is not disturbed."

She laid a hand on his arm. "Thank you," she returned with a tone of deep gratitude.

Behind and onto the front door's steps stepped a massive, chiselled mountain of a man who was six feet seven inches if he was an inch, his tweed suit and dove grey vest stretched tight against the broad expanse of his chest. "Mr. Holmes!" he called out in a strong west of Ireland brogue. "Ye've arrived at last, I see."

Holmes turned and raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Fagan," he replied, and moved back over towards him. "How goes it?"

Fagan stuck his shovel sized hands in his suit pockets and rocked a little back and forth. "If you'll be excusin' the expression giving the context…it's as quiet as the grave, Mr. Holmes. Quiet as the grave. If they're out there, then they're surely bidin' their time." He took in the area around him. "I've a man stationed out of sight watching the house from the park...and men at every entrance and one on the roof. The place is well covered, I assure ye."

"Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Fagan, thank you." Holmes agreed, stepping inside into the hallway as he continued to talk with the big Irishman.

"Miss?" Goodwin gently asked Miss Thurlow, after watching the cabbie bring the bags to the door. "May I help you with your mother?"

She turned to glance back at lady in the carriage, only to find the older woman already on her feet, and before any of us could restrain our surprise, she had glided out of the growler and up the steps and into the house. A moment later, I and my companions rushed into the house after her.

Holmes, for his part, merely watched enigmatically as Mrs. Thurlow moved towards and past him. Reaching into his pocket, he paid the curious cabbie and took in the bags, closing the door as soon as everyone had entered after the older woman, whom we found standing in the foyer, gazing calmly at a potted plant.

A door at the side of the hallway opened and an all too familiar voice spoke out as it exited what appeared to be the study. "Goodwin, who was at the..." our client began, before coming to a dead stop in the now crowded hallway, having come face to face with his past. "Alice?" he whispered, staring at the woman who had been his wife for sixteen years.

"This fern requires water," she whispered. "It's drying in the desert." Her voice had a cracked quality, as if it was rarely used...which was very likely the case.

Mr. Thurlow took a step towards her almost involuntarily. "Alice?" he repeated, his eyes taking her in with the most peculiar expression in them.

"It'll be dark soon...best find Helen...likely up a tree again," she sing-songed.

He exhaled as the realization overtook him as to the nature of her state, and, to my surprise, his eyes could not hide what seemed to me to be the sudden rush of sadness and a startlingly deep regret. Drawing himself up, he moved closer still, his voice so soft and gentle that it seemed incapable of coming from the harsh, demanding, arrogant man I had encountered previously. "Yes...the tree at the end of the garden, her favourite place to hide...the one with the swing I built you."

At that, Miss Thurlow seemed to shake herself out of her stupor and crossed quickly to her mother, taking her hand in her own and distinctly ignoring the man she was speaking with. "Come, Mother," she whispered.

Arthur blinked, and then murmured, "Helen."

The older woman's eyes turned to her daughter, the glassy, far away look very apparent. "Is it time for tea?"

Goodwin crossed to the far side of the foyer and opened two sliding double doors. "Miss Helen, you can wait in here undisturbed if you wish," he informed her quietly.

She glanced over and nodded at the butler. "Come, Mother...let us go sit. It's been a busy evening," she coaxed, and I watched the lucidity again seep out of the older woman's eyes as her daughter sighed and led her away from us to the relative safety of the drawing room.

Holmes turned to the rather staggered looking master of the house. "Mr. Thurlow, as you can see, we have been successful in finding your daughter and her mother. I think you, I, Watson, and your wife...your current wife...should speak," he instructed him, and without further preamble marched right past the red-headed man, who was still staring at the doors that Goodwin was now drawing closed, and into the study.

After another moment, Mr. Thurlow swallowed and nodded. "Goodwin..." he told the butler rather hoarsely, "please go and fetch Mrs…" He paused for barely a moment. "Your mistress."

Goodwin gave a short bow and moved towards the stairs, while I followed my colleague into the study. Our client walked in afterwards and closed the door, pausing a moment before walking across the room slowly, still looking rather like a train had hit him at full speed, before he sat down across the desk from where my friend was already seated.

"Mr. Thurlow," Holmes started briskly, "I shall come straight to the point, and pull no punches in doing so. As you can see, Alice Thurlow is not a well woman. Her illness is directly attributable to your leaving her, and, needless to say, she is in no fit state for stress of any kind. Uprooting her from her home, such as it is, would, I would say, already constitute far too much stress for a woman in her condition..."

"I had no idea," the businessman muttered, staring at his desk.

Holmes continued without pause. "Needless to say, your daughter is not favourably disposed towards you, both on her mother's and her own behalf...and has made a strong request that you stay away from her mother at all times."

"As a physician, I would also concur with your daughter's request. She needs to be treated with great care and sensitivity," I added, moving from the bookcase near where I had been standing to a closer position to the pair.

Mr. Thurlow blinked as if the words were only now permeating his brain. "Not speak with her?" he repeated, looking up with a most bewildered face.

"No," I reinforced strongly. "Beside the fact that it is highly unlikely she will even register your words...if she were to notice your presence, it would only confuse and exacerbate matters. Her grip on reality is tenuous at best, and one wrong word or tone could send her permanently into dementia."

I shot a look over at Holmes, knowing he guessed I was leaning to the more extreme of possibilities, but I felt a rather protective surge toward the woman and her mother, as I had promised to them to make this as painless as possible, and I meant to keep my word.

Holmes's eyes moved back to Arthur Thurlow, who had returned to staring at his desk, and my friend's look became contemplative. "However," he considered, sitting back in his chair, "your daughter is an entirely different matter, Mr. Thurlow. This situation is by any standards a disaster, but it does offer some opportunity, as most moments of crisis do. I don't pretend to know much about family life, Mr. Thurlow, but I would strongly suggest that you grasp that opportunity while you may." After a moment, he rose to his feet. "A room for her and her mother both would be a beginning to make them both feel more comfortable in uncomfortable surroundings..."

Thurlow nodded without looking up. "Of course...certainly..." Clearing his throat, his head rose up, as he continued, "I...will...I will have the twins move to a guest room. They may share a bed for the duration. Their room has twin beds, both more than large enough for Helen and...and...Alice." His voice dropped again.

"They most certainly will not!" rang a furious, feminine voice from the doorway.

I turned to see a petite woman with black hair and delicate pale features stride into the room, almost slamming the door behind her. "My children will not be bundled out of their beds for...them!" she thundered, as she turned her irate gaze fully on her husband.

Mr. Thurlow stood slowly, his face hardening with each inch he rose. "Ellen, this is Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," he forcefully reminded her of her position as hostess, "and Helen and Alice are our guests. The boys will only be discommoded for a few nights hopefully, and they won't mind."

She turned and gave Holmes and I the most disdainful glance I had ever been on the receiving end of, her nose wrinkling as if she smelling something particularly poor, before returning her flashing ice blue eyes to her husband. "No...they will not. Not for a few nights...not for _any_ nights. I want them out, Arthur. You swore to me once that they would never step foot in this house again...but now you have reneged and insisted. Fine...but they will not displace any of the _actual_ residents of this home!"

I found myself glancing over at my colleague and wondering if Thurlow had not perhaps given up more than he bargained for in seeking to secure his hard built empire. However, Holmes, for his part, was idly tapping one finger against his lips, attempting to hide a smile before he turned away and glanced out the window.

"Ellen..." her husband informed her, leaning on his desk and pressing a button, "they will go where I say they will, and you will follow my will in this matter."

She straightened a little higher, which I barely thought was possible as she was already almost ramrod in her stature. "If you move my sons for..._them_..." She seemed to spit out the word. "I hope you are prepared to live with your decision," she shot back, her voice thick with cold rage.

If I had closed my eyes at that point, I could almost have imagined myself to be back in some kind of struggle for succession, and it occurred to me that Miss Thurlow's allusion to her father as an almost Henry the Eighth type figure was more accurate than I had thought. While his earlier crimes still rested heavily on his head, his obvious gentility with his first wife, and the fact that there seemed little love lost between him and his current spouse resulted in my regarding him as a possibly more complex individual than, till lately, I had thought.

A moment later, Goodwin entered the room. "Yes, sir?" he enquired.

Thurlow dragged his grey eyes from his wife to his butler. "Goodwin, send the boys to me, will you?"

"Yes, sir," the butler agreed with a nod, and exited.

As soon as he was gone, Thurlow turned back to his wife. "We shall ask the boys. If they do not wish to move, then I will leave them where they are. If, on the other hand, they are willing to share their room with their guests, then that will be an end to it." His voice was flat, icy, and absolutely final in tone as he sat back down and looked at Holmes. "Is there anything else you need to discuss with my...wife...Mr. Holmes?"

My friend turned back from the window. "Yes...with regards to the first Mrs. Thurlow," he said, seeming to emphasise the word first deliberately, "we have already suggested that it would be best if your husband refrained from as much contact with her as possible. We would make the same request of you, Mrs. Thurlow...in addition to your husband's daughter, Helen. I realise complete avoidance will be impossible, but it would seem wise to limit it as much as possible."

She raised her chin and turned to stare at Holmes with pure scorn. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. They are only even here at my husband's insistence. I care not a jot for either of them. Do what needs to be done, and get them out of my house," she spat.

Holmes inclined his head, that same small, amused smile touching his lips once more. "Of course, Mrs. Thurlow. I would not wish any further inconvenience to so charming and gracious a hostess."

She sniffed and turned away from him as if he had the significance of a flea, his sarcastic comment bouncing off as if he had not spoken, and I found myself glancing again at Holmes and sharing his amused look.

Following a short knock, the door to the study opened again, and Goodwin stepped inside. "Your sons, sir," the butler announced, looking a little frazzled, and, a second later, two small red-haired twins with matching impudent, scampish looks on their faces trotted in. The change in Thurlow's face was instantaneous as a wide smile wreathed his face. "Boys!" he called to them, beckoning them with open arms.

The two boys broke into a scamper and ran around their father's desk and into his arms, where they were promptly placed one on each knee.

One turned and immediately took in the company. "Hello!" he greeted with unabashed enthusiasm, while the second took a moment longer to scrutinise and evaluate before following his brother's lead. "How do you do?" he inquired.

"Mr. Holmes...Dr. Watson," Arthur Thurlow introduced proudly, "these are my sons...Andrew..." He indicated the chirpy one. "And Matthew." He placed a hand on the second, more cautious boy.

I could not help but warm to the twin sets of wide grins, bright brown eyes, and a virtual sea of freckles. "How do you do," I replied to the small, friendly versions of their father, and returned the smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"Are you friends of Papa's? Have you come to stay? Do you like cards?" Andrew asked brightly in almost a single breath.

"You don't look like Mr. Fagan's other men," Matthew noted, looking at us closely, something which garnered him an almost approving look from Holmes.

Thurlow encircled both boys with his arms and drew them back against him. "Hush boys," he admonished softly. "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are not guests in the strict sense of the word. They are here to help our family...as I explained to you."

"Oh," Matthew remembered with a nod, "you are the detec...detec..." He frowned at his brother.

"Detective," Andrew finished for him, wriggling to be put down.

"Stay where you are, Andrew," his father said firmly but softly to him. "Your mother and I have something we need to ask you and your brother."

I glanced over at Mrs. Thurlow, who had not spoken a word since they appeared, nor, I had also noticed, had they said a word to her.

Matthew looked at his father curiously. "What is it? It's not about the broken credenza is it?" he asked quietly, looking more than a little guilty all of a sudden.

Their father blinked. "What broken credenza?"

Freezing in mid wriggle, the grin wavered on the more chattier boy's face as his eyes met his mother's, before he deliberately looked away and shot his brother a peeved look at the slip of his tongue. "It's not important, Papa," Andrew assured him.

"We'll talk about that later," their father said to them quietly. "But right now, we need to talk about something else." He glanced at his wife briefly, before continuing, "We have two new guests, not Mr Holmes and Dr. Watson...but two ladies..."

"Are they pretty?" asked Andrew, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Are they friends of yours? Do _they_ like to play cards?"

He inhaled gently. "Yes, Andrew, they are pretty..." He paused for a moment. "And yes, they did like to play cards, both of them...once…" he said quietly to himself, before shaking his head slightly. "You must listen to me carefully, boys. One of them your Papa was married to before your Mama...a lady named Alice. The other is her daughter, Helen." He paused again to allow that to sink in a little. "Helen is also my daughter...and _your_ sister."

Matthew blinked. "Our sister?"

Andrew's eyes met his brother's as both sets widened simultaneously. "We have a sister?" the other breathed at the same time.

"Can we meet her?" Matthew pulled on his father's waistcoat urgently. "Please, Papa?"

Andrew nodded enthusiastically. "Oh please!" he chorused. "Does she look like us?"

Mrs. Thurlow seemed to tense visibly. "No," she returned flatly. "They will not be staying long."

Thurlow shot her a hard look before smiling at them indulgently. "Yes, you will meet her," he promised them. "And yes, she does look like you...a little...all though her hair is a deeper red, and her eyes are more like mine."

Both boys, who had flinched at their mother's words and tone, relaxed once more and grinned at each other.

"But first, we have a problem that you must sort out for us," he said seriously to his sons.

"Can we meet her now?" Andrew interrupted.

"Andrew," his father admonished, as he raised an eyebrow.

"Please?" the boy begged.

Matthew kicked his brother lightly and made a hush noise. "You'll ruin it!" he whispered, and glanced towards his mother and back at his brother meaningfully. Andrew followed his glance and nodded solemnly.

"Later on," Thurlow said firmly. "Your sister and her mother need to settle in...which is what we want to talk to you about." Matthew nodded seriously, listening closely, as his father continued, "Your sister has asked that she room with her mother as she is in a house that is not hers. Your room has twin beds that would suit them. Would you be willing to let them sleep there while you sleep together in the same bed in another room?" As he waited for their response, he glanced briefly at his wife before turning back to his sons.

I watched them both as they appeared to take only seconds to think it over, though I did note that Andrew took in the sour, fuming look on his mother's face. "Yes!" they chorused as one, their faces splitting wide with happy grins.

"They can stay ages!" Andrew enthused. "And I can show her how to make model ships!"

"And she can look through my telescope at the moon if she likes," Matthew added.

"Good boys," Thurlow responded with a pleased tone, and placed quick kisses to both their foreheads before letting them down.

"And we can play pirates!" Andrew continued.

Matthew frowned at his brother. "Girls don't play pirates!"

"This is intolerable!" growled Mrs. Thurlow from the spot she'd been rooted to by the bookshelf, and stormed from the room, giving her husband a look that would have felled even Mr. Fagan.

Andrew flinched at the slamming door before sighing with almost relief and shooting his brother a haughty look. "'Course they do! Who else is going to be the captive?"

Matthew, however, looked more chastened by his mother's departure. "Did we do something, Papa?"

Thurlow put his arm around the quieter boy and shook his head. "No, Matthew. It's not you boys."

Matthew nodded slowly, and looked at Andrew. "Well, who is going to rescue her then?" He picked up where they left off in the resilient manner of most children.

Andrew glanced at the door for a moment before shrugging at his brother's question. "Mr. Beans!" he told him, as if it was obvious, and referring to the personage that I would later discover to be a cat.

"Mr. Beans can't rescue her! That's silly! He's too small. I shall have to rescue her," Matthew sniffed. "I shall be a Captain in Her Majesty's Navy, and hang you from the yardarm!"

Andrew snorted, "That is what you always say."

Thurlow's smile was warm and intense as he listened to his sons, and his eyes drifted over the table to his more grown up guests. Holmes returned to his seat and nodded at Thurlow.

"I know what you both think of me," our client said quietly while his boys argued, "and I know you think that whatever happens to me would be just. And today has driven home to me just how just that might be...but they don't know that." He glanced at the boys, before continuing, "For all my sins, they love me and I them, and I have no wish to leave them...as I did their sister."

He sat back with a pensive expression on his face. "It has taken me a long time to realise a lot of things about myself. I am a selfish man, spiteful...and driven...but these past few days have given me time for reflection and taking stock. I have done things I can never be forgiven for...and would never ask forgiveness for. But even though I have done dreadful wrongs, I did love those women you brought here tonight as much as I love these boys. You may not comprehend how that may reconcile itself with my actions, but it_ is_ the truth, and whether you believe it or not, it needed to be said." He rose to his feet, and turned his attention to his young children.

"Boys," he interrupted them, "go and gather your things. Ask Goodwin to help you. Once you are moved, wash yourselves and change your clothes, and I will see if perhaps your sister might be willing to meet with you young scallywags."

The boys stopped immediately in mid-plan, and, flashing their father another set of wide grins, dashed from the room.

"Perhaps I might take your advice now, and take that opportunity that has presented itself to me," the businessman mused, taking a deep breath, and turned back to us. "Would one of you gentlemen kindly consent to intercede on my behalf with my daughter and play mediator between us when she has her mother settled? If she will speak with me, that is?"

"That sounds like a suitable enough job for Watson...if he's willing," Holmes suggested, turning to me with a quirked eyebrow.

The look on my face showed that I was not the least bit pleased to be volunteered into such a role. "I will speak to Miss Thurlow, but I would not hold out much hope on her agreement."

"I understand," our client replied gratefully. "Thank you for the attempt, Doctor."

Silently nodding, I turned back to Holmes, who inhaled slowly. "Now that we have your family gathered under one roof, Mr. Thurlow. It is Watson's and my contention to make representation to Rajah Mahindra for an audience."

Thurlow sank back down into his chair. "You will meet with him?" he breathed.

"If he will meet with us...yes," Holmes affirmed. "We will see if we can broach the subject and appeal to him...or at the least find some way to make restitution or a clue to stopping this. We will make an application tomorrow, but it may take a day or two before we can be seen. In the meantime, you and your family are to stay indoors at all times."

Thurlow nodded in acquiescence. "I have it organised so Harry...Mr. Hant, my secretary, whom you met last night, Doctor, is living here with us. He is running the business for me while I am confined here. In fact, he is the only one coming or going at the moment, so I have no need to leave."

"Good," my companion approved with a nod. "Then while you and Watson attempt to approach Miss Thurlow, I shall consult further with Mr. Fagan."

Thurlow ordered tea, and we bided our time until Goodwin came and gave word that the boys had been moved and were in their evening baths, and that Mrs. and Miss Thurlow had been settled into their room.

"It would appear, Watson, that your time has come," Holmes said, finishing his tea.

I shot him a quick look, as I was still unclear about which reason to present to Miss Thurlow that she would find acceptable for speaking with her estranged father.

"If you'll excuse us, Mr. Thurlow," Holmes said, rising to his feet, and leading the way out. Once in the hall and alone, my friend turned to me. "Miss Thurlow is an eminently practical woman it seems to me," he stated factually. "She knows what needs to be done and does it without complaint. She is living in his house, and she will know there is no way she can constantly avoid him. Better that things be conducted in a controlled environment with a third party. Secondly, there is a part of her that wants to confront him...wants to speak to him. You must have heard her, Watson. She is hurt and bewildered as any child would be when she feels a parent who loved them, as she said he did her, just up and leaves. She has questions...she must have...again, better she deal with them in a controlled environment," he advised.

"I realize that," I replied, feeling rather defensive as I crossed my arms against my chest. "However, she may not yet be ready to...and though I will do what I can, it's most hard to find exactly the right words to say in this situation."

Holmes glanced towards the study door briefly before returning his attention to me. "It will not have escaped your notice the different aspects of the personality of our client that we have witnessed since our arrival, Watson," he noted. "He is not quite the hard man he painted for us previously. He put a lot aside in his attempt to make something of himself, to make a mark on the world that ignored and derided him. I think he is only now realising how very much he lost in doing so…too late, as always."

My eyes widened at his words, "Too late?" I asked, wondering if he felt that protecting Thurlow might prove beyond our powers.

Holmes looked back at me with grave eyes when he finally qualified his answer, "For him…for Alice Thurlow…but maybe not for his children." He laid a hand on my shoulder encouragingly. "I think he may yet make some atonement of worth. He is not an evil man, and what he has done is, sadly, merely a reflection of something that our society has long condoned. All throughout history there have been those who have suffered for great men to become great. We admire the Caesars and the Tudors and even the Bonapartes of this world, but their personal lives are littered with wreckage…the kind of wreckage we are witnessing now."

I nodded slowly in acceptance of his assessment. Arthur Thurlow had created a great empire of sorts. He was an employer of vast numbers and a bulwark of British business, as well as a philanthropist with a charitable foundation. It was almost inconceivable that he could hurt those he purported to love so…and yet…as Holmes said, he would not have been the first man to do so. It just seemed so…disconnected. I wondered then if maybe the personality of Arthur Thurlow himself was a divided one. Whether there was something else at work. However, Holmes snapped me from my thoughts with another pat on my shoulder as he walked away from me.

"Every man, no matter who, also has the right to at least try to atone. Let us see, Watson, if Arthur Thurlow can at last truly be as great a man as he wants to be. That is, in spirit as well as fortune," he called back, before opening the door and disappearing outside.

I watched my friend go with no small amount of trepidation. Being a mediator was nothing new to me. In fact, there was many a time that I had had to not only keep the peace between Holmes and the investigator in charge of a case or perhaps between two clients...but to play the role to bring together a father and daughter who had not even spoken in ten years, and he had behaved so grievously to her... Still, perhaps what Holmes had said was true. She _was_ confused and hurt still, even after all this time…and she would be seeking answers to her questions; perhaps in that there would be a way forward.

Holmes was right. I had to try. Though, were she to laugh in my face at the prospect, I would not blame her.

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Just a couple of quickie notes. Thank you all again for the wonderful and indepth reviews! Especially with chapter two...those are always the best when people say what they liked or have questions. Just to address the one concern that we found - Holmes being rude to Miss Thurlow. Actually, he wasn't being rude to just be rude. As he indicates to Watson at the end, it was simply his way of diverting her attention...giving her something to chew on instead of the current situation and such. He's still respectful to women, though I agree distrustful and has no time for them personally. Hope this clears up any missunderstanding. :)_**

_**Thank you all again for reading, and we hoped you enjoyed meeting the rest of the Thurlows! Kind wishes to all, and as always feel free to review. We love hearing from you! Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	4. The Prodigal Father

_**Chapter Four: The Prodigal Father**_

I asked directions to Miss Thurlow's room from the passing Goodwin, who, in so many words, informed me that he was, on Ellen Thurlow's instructions, setting up the drawing room as a makeshift dining and sitting room for her unwanted guests, following her point blank refusal to allow them sit with her at the dining table and obviously at serious odds with her husband, who similarly refused to keep them prisoner in their rooms.

He asked me if I would be so good as to inform them of this state of affairs as I was on my way up there. I, of course, agreed, and made my way up to the young Masters Thurlow's room, and, after straightening, and preparing myself as best I could, knocked politely on the door.

A moment later, I was gratified to hear a calm, if tired, "Enter."

On opening the door and walking inside, I was greeted by the rather incongruous but charming sight of Miss Thurlow and her mother seated on twin brass beds in a brightly lit and comfortably appointed room, surrounded by a veritable sea of toys of every conceivable type -- from rocking horses and lead soldiers to kites and science kits, and even a highly impressive telescope. It was a dream room for any young child.

I looked around myself and then back at Miss Thurlow, staving off the almost immediate and childish expression of wonder. "I apologise for the intrusion."

The pretty auburn haired woman stood immediately and crossed the distance between us in but a moment. "It is quite all right, Dr. Watson. As you can see, we were just settling in." She cast her eyes around the room with a hint of a smile. "It is quite the wonderland in here, is it not?" she asked softly, her voice containing a mere hint of sadness, before turning back to her mother, who merely continued to gaze out the window and into the star filled night with her usual glazed and glassy countenance.

I could not help but nod in agreement. "Truly. I would have given my eye teeth for a set of soldiers like that when I was a boy," I said wistfully, nodding towards the impressive set of French and English soldiers complete with cannon and cavalry to boot, facing off against each other on a landscaped table. I was about to comment further on her young brothers' good fortune, when I remembered to whom it was I was about to address the comment and silenced myself, wondering mutely whether, once, she too had a room like this...filled with the toys and favours from an indulgent and wealthy father.

She turned to me and must have noticed my expression, for she gave me a reassuring smile. "Please, do not concern yourself, Doctor. I do not begrudge one toy or moment of happiness for those boys. They are true innocents in this entire debacle." Turning, she cast her eyes around the room once more. "It reassures me greatly that they are so well loved and cared for."

I nodded slowly while thoughts arose of how she, too, was once well loved and cared for, and whether Arthur Thurlow might still be capable of the same icy act of abandonment if the need arose. I quashed them quickly, finding them at odds with the mediating duty I had come to perform, and smiled at her in response, then glanced at her mother before addressing the daughter once more.

"I have come, Miss Thurlow, from a meeting with Holmes and your father." I paused momentarily, taking a deep breath. "We have delivered your request to him about your mother and to his wife also, and they are in agreement. A separate dining area in the drawing room has been set aside for your comfort, so that you and your mother will not be trapped in your rooms while you are here. I believe there is also access to the rear gardens through that room, so you may take some air if you wish."

She quirked a slender eyebrow and nodded. "Thank you," she returned with a grateful tone. "I appreciate all of yours and Mr. Holmes's efforts on our behalf."

"In fairness," I said slowly, beginning to lay what I hoped was the groundwork for her father's invitation, "I believe it was your father who organised for you to have the drawing room to yourselves and for Goodwin to be your personal servant for the duration. His wife was less...receptive." I phrased my words as diplomatically as I could about the shrewish woman, before clearing my throat and pressing on quickly, "To that end...I have come to deliver a request in return."

Her expression became enigmatic at best. "A request?" she repeated.

"Your father is equally concerned about your stay here," I continued, picking my words carefully. "The house has been much disrupted, as you can see, even without your and your mother's arrival. Therefore, your father has asked me if I would intercede on his behalf and ask you, for the good of all, whether you might meet with him to talk over the matter." I paused for just a moment as my look grew serious. "And I feel you should know that quite apart from such generalities, I believe he has something important he wishes to say to you," I added quietly.

She was silent, and in the vacuum I offered quickly and reassuringly, "You will, of course, not be alone with him. If it is acceptable to you, I will remain and act as mediator."

She must have gazed at me for a full minute, her expression carefully blank, but I could tell she was evaluating what I had said and deciding the most appropriate course of action. Indeed, it was as close to one of Holmes's expressions as I had ever seen. After a moment more, she turned away, a slight frown on her face, as she made her way back to her mother and sat down on the bed next to her. "Mother...Dr. Watson has asked me to go downstairs for a bit and talk to...talk to Father. I won't be long, and I will send Goodwin up to bring you a glass of warm milk."

I had been all prepared to tell her that I fully understood if she did not wish to face him and was somewhat surprised by her words. To my further astonishment, the older woman patted her daughter's hand absently before turning to her with a small smile. "Go along then...but mind your manners," she replied before turning back to the window, and began to hum a tune that sounded distinctly like _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_.

Miss Thurlow returned her smile, and, after bestowing a small kiss on her mother's forehead, rose and came back over to me. "Shall we, Doctor? If I remember correctly, my father hates to be kept waiting."

"On this occasion, Miss Thurlow, I think for once he will wait as long as you wish," I assured her before taking a step away and opening the door for her to show her out.

Leading her back downstairs, I paused by the study door and turned back to her. "Miss Thurlow," I said quietly so as not to be overheard, "I feel I should say this as it will undoubtedly be upsetting for you, and I would not have you enter into something you do not feel ready or able for. This has been quite an upsetting day for you as is. Rest assured, there is no pressure on you to do this; should you not wish to, he will not insist. We can still turn back if you so wish."

She only smiled in reply and took my hand in hers, squeezing it just a little. "It is quite all right, Doctor. I suppose I have waited ten years to hear his explanations and justifications. Also, if we are all to be confined to the same house for even a short period of time, it would be best to get all feelings out into the open...do you not agree?"

"I do...though I must admit," I replied with a smile in return, "on this occasion, it took Holmes of all people for me to take that on board. When it takes Holmes to point such things out to me, I know I am in need of a holiday," I added with a slightly exaggerated sheepishness.

She lowered her head and appeared to struggle with something, for in the next moment she simply looked up with the most amused expression on her face, and, with a little laugh, she squeezed my hand again. "Well, after this, you must ensure that you get one. I insist."

"I will inform Holmes directly. Your support would be most gratefully received," I returned as my smile grew broader and gradually changed into an encouraging look. "Are you prepared?"

The smile slid off her face a bit more rapidly than I think she must have intended, but she nodded all the same. "Yes..." she said softly, squaring her shoulders. "As much as one can be at any rate." Squeezing her hand in return, I released it and turned to the door, knocking on it firmly.

"Enter," the deep masculine voice came in reply, a weary tone pervading it. A fleeting ironic thought of both father and daughter using the same word and same tone flashed through my mind as I opened the door and stepped inside to see Arthur Thurlow look up from his desk, and, on seeing it was me, rise to his feet with a look of almost eager desperation on his face.

"Well...?" he asked quickly of me. "What did she..." His voice halted in mid question, sliding into silence, as from behind me his daughter stepped into the room after me. He stared at her as he had before. "Helen," he greeted her quietly as I closed the door softly and remained there to give them space to speak.

She gazed about the room, her eyes seeming to miss nothing, before she turned back to her father. "There are some new books...and that couch is new...but most of this room has remained unchanged," she commented softly.

It took a moment for him to find his voice. His grey eyes were soft as he took her in keenly, and I could not help but wonder at how a man could look at his daughter as he was looking at her now, and yet have cut her so completely out of his life as he had done. It amazed, confused, and perturbed me deeply.

"Your memory is excellent," he replied, his tone showing he was well aware what implications that particular statement might have for him.

"Thank you," she returned politely as she crossed over to one of the chairs in front of his desk and sat down.

He watched her as she sat, his manner suddenly becoming nervous and agitated as he glanced at me and back at her, his mind seeming to go blank. "I...would you care for a drink?" he asked, moving towards the drinks cabinet at the back of the room before stopping with a creased brow. "_Do_ you drink?" he asked quietly, after a momentary pause.

Her expression fluctuated only slightly as her head turned to follow him. "Not particularly," she answered civilly before turning away to gaze at the windows. "It isn't exactly a necessity."

"No..." he said quietly. "I suppose not...even if there are times when it feels like it. Doctor?" he asked, turning his head to me, even as his mouth pulled into a deeply ironic half smile.

"I will join you if you are having one," I replied, deciding the best course was to have both of them at their ease. There was little doubt that the man was agitated, as was only right and proper...but it wouldn't do either of them any good in the long run to have him remain so. He nodded in reply and poured two small brandies out, handing me one before walking back to sit opposite her.

Putting his glass down after sipping from it liberally, he shifted several times until he was comfortable. "You are looking well," he voiced after a moment. "You have grown into a beautiful young woman, Helen."

Again her expression fluctuated, and I was simply amazed at how she quietly kept herself together. "Thank you," she replied, her eyes washing over him and his rich clothes, the cost of which, I knew that she could not help thinking, would feed her and her mother for a month. "You too look well."

"Outward appearances, as you would no doubt strongly concur," he replied, still watching her closely, "can be deceiving." He hesitated then, as his mind seemed to search for something else to say before he opened his mouth to speak again, paused, sighed, and then, with a shake of his head, sat forward.

"It's no use..." he lamented, almost visibly deflating in front of us both. "I have tried all my life to be the gentleman. To make myself into something society wanted me to be...to be accepted. To be polite and diplomatic and behave...and I am only marginally more successful at it now, than I was when I was a young man. I cannot do this tiptoeing around. I am too plain speaking and stubborn for it." Standing up, he turned away, rubbing his head roughly and grimacing, before turning back to looked at her with his shoulders straight, arms by his side like the soldier on parade he once was...or the man facing a firing squad he was now.

"I know you must hate me, Helen," he said straight out. "I know you despise and loathe me for what I did both to you and to your mother. Not just for leaving her, for these things happen in marriage...but for how I left her...and you. And I have no excuses to make to you...nothing I can say that will forgive such an action.

"All I can tell you is why I did it. It won't change anything, won't make you look on me any kinder...but it will give you what I denied you all this time...an answer of sorts." He moved away to a small picture on the wall, containing a cottage in what looked to be a part of the world and time akin to Somerset on a long summer evening. "Do you remember this painting?" he asked her.

She nodded, before answering quietly, "Yes...it's where you grew up."

"Aye..." he affirmed with a nod, his accent coming out strongly as he looked up at it. "Your grandmother's home while she lived. When my mother died when I was nine, she left me two things, a small inheritance...enough to get me into a good school if I worked hard and got a partial scholarship, and my stepfather." His face darkened noticeably at that.

"Jack Aylworth, a big bear of a publican, with several hostelries to his name, and as bitter a man towards gentry as you would've ever met in your life. A bitterness that was freely transferred to anyone seeking to attain their level. He ridiculed everything I ever did, laughed at the idea of my becoming accepted by my betters, and told me I would amount to nothing unless I drove myself harder and was ruthless...like he was. He drove my mother to an early grave by berating her for every soft feeling and good thing she ever did for anyone other than him, every way she tried to better me or others around her.

"I hated him...but I lived with him alone for four years, and worked hard in school until I finally accomplished what was then the first part of my dream, getting my scholarship to Rugby, and leaving for public school for what I thought would be a better life. Unfortunately, it seems I did not ever leave him behind. It appears more of him seeped into me then I ever acknowledged."

He turned back to his daughter, who was watching him guardedly from her chair. "A rough childhood..." he snorted. "Hardly an excuse, I know. There are many out there who have suffered the same and far worse. You included now," he said, gazing at her before walking over to the window. "But his words proved more prophetic than I thought. I thought when I got to school at Rugby, I could begin to better myself…to prove him wrong...but I was a scholarship boy. I had no money, no connections, and instead of the first step of a dream, I ended up on the first step of a pattern of behaviour I was to encounter all my life. I was bullied, and when I fought back..._I _was the one punished...not the ones who started it. All it proved to me was that if I was to succeed in life, it would be because I got what they really admired. Not learning or refinement, but power and money...and if I were to do it, if I were to survive…I would have to be as ruthless as my stepfather had said, for there was no one to depend on but myself."

He paused for a moment and clasped his hands behind his back. "Put not your faith in princes, they say. So I didn't. I put my head down and worked hard as I had before. I revenged myself on my enemies on the sly without any trace to lead back to me so they couldn't expel me, and garnered respect…enough fear if you will…to be left alone." He nodded slowly, his mind cast back to long ago.

"That was to be the pattern of my life. I studied the great generals and kings and their lives...and again saw how they had to live alone, fight alone. They did what they had to do to make a mark on the world, and to leave a legacy...and that's what I wanted to do...had to do, otherwise I would always just be what my stepfather said I was, and not what my mother said I could be...a great man.

"I went to India, joining the army to seek my fortune in the new frontier as many young men were doing…but though I hauled myself by my bootstraps to the level of officer and Captain, I soon found that any hopes I had for further progression through the ranks, to make my name as a soldier, would flounder on our class system…as rigid and unforgiving of a man's birth as the Indian caste system they all looked down on." He shook his head quietly. "The men of my regiment were debauched and cruel, and yet called themselves gentlemen and _me_ the upstart. They rounded on me and on the only other man who was not as they were, Hamish Balfour."

Turning back to her, his eyes met hers. "By now you know what happened next. No doubt Mr. Holmes and the good doctor have told you everything I did." He inhaled, his voice strong as he continued, "I'm not proud of it…not now…but I did what I did at the time, because that was the way things were, and because of who I was slowly becoming because of it." He exhaled quietly and looked towards me. "I wish to God I hadn't now…but I cannot change what has been, and though I railed at it and them before to you, Doctor, I must apologise now for my behaviour that night. Having just found a knife embedded in my desk, and a threat to my family's well being, you might be good enough to allow for my indignation, anger, and stubbornness. I have since decided that I must accept the consequences of my own actions without complaint." He nodded firmly before continuing, leaving me further in askance at the change in his outward demeanour and manner from before.

"I came home, and started the firm with Hamish. I was doing well. Well enough to have made enough money for people to take notice…society people." He turned around, and addressed his silent daughter once more. "People like your mother's family," he told her simply. "It was exactly as my stepfather had said. I had been ruthless, done what I had to do, and it had brought financial rewards…and with it, the first glimmer of recognition. I met your mother at one of the first society balls I was ever invited to."

A soft smile of remembrance touched his mouth. "Your family knew I was wealthy and, in truth, they threw her at me, hoping for a match. She took pity on me…what little veneer I had picked up in Rugby had been sandpapered off me in India, and trussed up like a turkey I was the most awkward of men…but she didn't laugh at me and my stumbling. She talked with me, and laughed with me, and there wasn't a snobbish bone in her body, I found…and before three weeks were through, I was as in love as a man can be." He hesitated again, his eyes flickering with a myriad of emotions, before ending in guilt. "And to my great fortune, if not hers, she loved me too," he whispered.

"We married," he continued, after shaking his head, as if to clear it, "and you came along not long after. And for a while, you were both my world. You know the next bit of course.

"I worked hard and was building something, something strong at last…but I remained driven. So driven that it did not sit well with society people like your mother's family, who love to have money, but hate the thought of actually having to make it. I say your mother's family because despite the air of gentility they give off, the velvet covers an entirely different sharper surface. Aye, to be sure it does, for despite the fact that I was supporting a good half of your mother's relatives, I soon found out what they thought of me." He jaw hardened visibly at the memory.

"I overheard them one Christmas just after we moved here to Belgravia, when you were twelve, I think. Aye, overheard them clearly I did. Your uncles and cousins, _all_ in my own employ or benefiting from it, deriding my attempts to move up in the world, laughing at my occasional lapses into a West Country idiom…scoffing at the charitable foundation I'd begun to set up, claiming it would be a production line for more people who 'didn't know their place.'" A wry laugh escaped him as he shook his head. "They even derided the money I'd donated to the Arts Fund, claiming it was for 'clog dancing.'

"I should have fired the lot of them, cut them off, but didn't, couldn't, for your mother's sake. But that was not the worst of it…no, the worst part of it was that it drove a wedge between your mother and me, because while I would not avenge myself for her sake…she would not face them on it for mine. Would not confront or admonish them even…" He paused in his recant and sighed. "I say it drove a wedge between us, the truth is more that I let it to so. I took her inaction as a betrayal. I took it hard…harder than I should have, because my pride was wounded, and because I thought she was putting them before me. I forgot then how gentle your mother's soul was, and how much she hated to argue and cause dissention.

"Their jibes, though, just motivated me to make them eat their words, to give me the respect I was due, and I was driven onwards, not just to be a prominent business man, but to be a man others turned to…a leader…a great man with a great legacy to leave." He stopped and lowered his head slightly, his expression hidden for a moment. "But a legacy requires someone to leave it to…someone to carry it on…and for that, I required something I did not have -- sons.

"As I grew richer and more prominent, I could hear the chattering start behind my back. Hamish was unmarried and never likely to be, given his circumstances. So his share would go to me as he had no family to speak of…to me or my heir…but with only a daughter, it would require someone else…someone else to take the reins of this huge business and that haunted me, more and more. The idea of everything I worked for falling into some sycophant's hands…some society boy who thought he could run it better than I…or it all being fragmented and scattered away. I hated the thought of it."

I watched him as he moved behind her, seemingly unable to face her for what was to come from him next.

"For the longest time, your mother and I had an excellent marriage, though we were blessed only with you. We tried many times for more children. Your mother desperately wanted to give me a son, knowing how much I wanted it…but for whatever reason, she could not carry another child to term." His hands fidgeted nervously at his side.

"The wedge between us grew gradually worse, because of her family and because of my pride and the need for that son that slowly became an obsession in order to prevent everything I had worked for from sliding into the hands of some of your idiot cousins. I needed someone I could mould and teach, someone who would understand and appreciate that this wasn't just a money making apparatus. This was an empire…a force that had power and influence, and gave back to the community as well as taking from it. And only blood really understands and appreciates what its predecessor is trying to do…only blood because of its heart and soul. "

He paused again, a frown forming on his brow. "My apologies, Helen. I don't mean to make it sound like justification. Again it was…is…the way of the world. You were a bright child, intelligent, and smart as a whip. But while women are many things, empresses even…they are not accepted in international business.

"And so my obsession grew, but your mother was still childless, and growing beyond child bearing years, and I had never quite forgiven her for her refusal to stand up to her family. It was then that Ellen came onto the horizon." He exhaled. "I shall spare you the details. Suffice it to say that we met at an industry ball, while I was away in Manchester, and she was more like me than unalike. Her people were merchants and respectful of my struggle to better myself. I was hungry for companionship, and she was a good listener…a very good listener as it turned out." He shook his head wryly. "Over that weekend, she figured out both me and what I wanted."

He sighed in irony. "As I said, more alike than unalike and ruthless. She offered me plainly what I wanted…another chance at sons…at keeping what I'd built alive, and struck a bargain with me. She would ask nothing of me, until the time she fell pregnant…then, I would put your mother aside, and take her to wife.

"I could make all the usual excuses -- I was lonely, I was angry…and I was…but ultimately I was weak. Weak to my desires to continue building, weak to my pride, and weak to my lust, and, though I loved your mother still, I took on Ellen's bargain. You know all the rest…" He shook his head again. "I kept my promise when she fell pregnant, and put your mother aside, meaning to give you both a comfortable life and keep you in my life as my daughter. But your mother's relatives, fearful of the loss of their positions in my firm, raised lawyers in her name to take what was mine for theirs.

"I was incandescent at their ingratitude and what I thought was her continued support of them, and at Ellen's exhortation I retaliated by withdrawing my offer of support. Then when I planned to keep you here with me, Ellen would not hear of it…said she would sooner die then have you here spying on her while she was with child, reporting to your mother and her snobbish family about my mistress turned wife. She said if I saw you I could not fail to see your mother, and she swore that _that_ would affect her so badly it would hurt the child." He glanced away, watching his daughter's face in the reflection on the window pane. "Ellen has always been terrified of your mother, odd as it sounds…probably because she knows she has never elicited from me the depth of feeling your mother has. She knows our marriage was more of a bargain -- a transaction rather than a match, and it has made her insecure…and that has made her fearful and harder still."

He finally walked back around to sit down again. "I was, of course, the worst kind of idiot to believe her potent combination of blandishments and scare mongering…and the worst kind of father. Because I was angry, I cast your mother aside, and because I was fearful, I cast you aside, and did what she asked for fear of losing my son…the son I had…and lost anyway." He reached out and touched the photograph of a young boy on his desk that I had noticed earlier, a boy with another mop of what was very likely red hair, but with what appeared to be lighter coloured eyes of the quality of his father and his sister, who sat across the table from him.

The businessman then stiffened and sat back again. "We had the twins also. All though I think they were merely conceived because one night, when I was too deep in my cups and the worse for ware, I dared to make the suggestion that I send for you." His brow knitted in thought. "Ellen's _amorousness_ or her _ire_ can be raised to great heights with that particular subject."

He grew silent for a moment, looking at the still astoundingly calm features of his daughter as he gripped the arms of his chair tightly. "As I say, none of this is an excuse, merely a recounting of what occurred. There is no excuse for putting aside a child…especially a child I loved." His eyes glanced down, perhaps to hide another wave of guilt. "Nor a woman I loved, for one I never have.

"I know what happened to your mother, though I was away on business in America when she…" He swallowed lightly, and looked away again. "Tried to harm herself, and returned when she was already safe in the hospital. You despise me…and rightly so…any right thinking person like the good doctor over there does, eh Doctor?" He glanced in my direction, humour mixed with self loathing in his eyes. Unable to reply, I merely looked away as he nodded. "Aye, despised…for the road I built was paved with good intentions, and I am damned to hell for it, and the mistakes I made along its way. I ask no forgiveness from you…for I cannot expect any.

"All I ask is that perhaps you might consider entertaining the thought of meeting with your brothers and becoming a sister to them." The shine in is eyes turned rather bleak. "I would like them to have one female family influence that they enjoy.

"You would have to have no interaction with me," he assured her, "and I will handle any objections my wife has to my finally coming to my senses and settling on you and your mother what should have been yours in the first place, the sum of ten thousand pounds a year and a home in St. Albans, if you will take it. Again, it is not a bribe or a request for forgiveness...merely your due, and you will not have to see me, either of you." He sat back and seemed to finally relax. "You may throw it all back in my face, and I will not blame you for it.

"Now…" he concluded quietly with a soft inhale of breath, "you have been good enough to listen to my piece. I must give you the same opportunity. Say or ask what you will."

She stared at him for a long moment, and I could see that she was struggling not only with her emotions, but with simply taking in the slew of information she'd just been dealt, some of which at least was new to her. Swallowing, she stood, and made her way over to the painting that had started it all. "My mother needs full time medical care..." she whispered.

"I shall see to it," he responded immediately, as he continued to stare straight ahead of him. "Whatever she needs, there will be no expense spared."

She closed her eyes and bowed her head, and I found myself taking a step towards her, as I feared her emotions would finally fell her. However, her eyes soon opened, and she turned quickly to her father with a most wary expression and posture. "How can I be sure it will last...this new found generosity and fatherly compassion? You loved me once...I know it. But the years alone have also left their mark...how can I be sure you will not just up and take it all away again? Not the money...but these new brothers of mine...or even yourself?"

"Myself?" he repeated, turning his head to look at her, somewhat bemused and startled by that, as in truth was I. He stared at her, and I could almost see his mind feverishly trying to think of what to say in answer, having been taken by surprise, as it was, by any kind of personal interest in him. "I...I...will draw up an agreement. Harry, my assistant, will help me. The money will be signed over to you in perpetuity. As for your brothers...I can see to it that it's included in the agreement, if you wish, that they spend a set amount of time with you. The house in St. Albans is large with extensive grounds, perfect for boys to run and climb and explore. If you take it, and like the boys...I could arrange for them to spend, say, half their summer holidays with you there?"

He paused for a moment, as he considered it further. "And one weekend a month...or perhaps a weekly visit, whichever you would prefer. You have yet to meet them, and may not be inclined to so much time with them...though they are very good boys, truly," he insisted vehemently.

Miss Thurlow frowned and shook her head. "I do not want to take your sons from you...nor desire a legal contract. I don't need a house, Father...or money. I never have," she returned, her tone almost sharp, before her posture relaxed a little with a sigh. "I am sure they are wonderful children...I never doubted that. If they wish to spend time with me, I am sure I will enjoy doing so...no matter the location. But what I want to know is..." She paused, and took several steps toward him. "If…when the heat of this madness is over...when you are safe once more...will you _still _wish to be a father to me? Will you keep your promise if I take the effort to get to know you again...or will you simply walk away as you did before?"

He blinked again, his expression even more telling that he had not at all been expecting this development. His look spoke of a man who had been anticipating her to berate and fly at him, or to take what he could give as her due and turn her back on him icily...he had never for one moment foreseen this.

"You wish to know me again?" he murmured in quiet disbelief. I must admit I found myself looking at her the same way, but there appeared to be very little anger in her...only a quiet sadness.

She gazed at him for a moment before crossing over to stand by his desk. "You are my father," she said softly. "Yes, you have done some horrible things...and not only to me and my mother. But, if you remember anything about me, you know it is not my nature to carry a grudge...or to hate. Yes...I am angry with you, but at least now I understand now why you did the things you did. Though I do not approve of them, make no mistake." She sighed and sank wearily into a chair, the first chink in her strength that I had seen.

"I have been alone for ten years caring for my mother, who is nine times out of ten barely conscious of my presence. I do not complain about it, for it's my duty to care for her and I love her dearly...but it _is_ a lonely life nevertheless. I would like to have at least one parent who I could talk to again." She raised her head, and I could see she was forcefully blinking back her tears. "I suppose I just wish to have a family again..." Her voice faltered, and she again turned her eyes to her hands as she struggled to maintain her composure. "I would just like to have my father back...even if it is only for now."

Her father's eyes remained fixed on her, and a minute later, he slowly rose out of his chair and walked around his desk to stand in front of her. Even from across the room, it was obvious his hands were shaking.

For a moment I considered getting up to leave, but I had said I would stay, and, in all honesty, I could not rip myself away from the pull of such a moment. So I remained and watched as Arthur Thurlow's nervous hand rose up and almost touched the hair on his daughter's bowed head, then watched him lower it again as he took a shuddering breath.

"After all that I have denied you, all that I have taken from you and put you through, how could I deny you something as worthless as my presence in your life. If that is what you wish...then I swear on the lives of your two brothers that I shall remain your father for as long as you wish. I have much to atone for I know, and I will do this however you say, at whatever pace you desire." He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, tears that matched her own stood in them. "Helen...I am so very, very sorry," he choked, his voice finally breaking.

It took her a full minute to respond, but when she did, I could see the reasons why streaking down her cheeks as she desperately tried to cling to her dignity. "I know," she whispered. "And I forgive you...but it is not only I whom you must make amends to." Her tone was one of a careful reminder as she rose to her feet. "Though I fear what your actual presence will do. All I ask is the care she desperately needs."

"She will have whatever care she needs…doctors, Vienna, Switzerland, it should never have come to this," he replied with a nod before his head dropped under the weight of another wave of guilt. "I will make amends in whatever way you think best."

She nodded in agreement, and there was a small smile of gratitude on her face. "Thank you, Father."

His eyes rose to meet hers again before shaking his head. "There is none required. It is I that should be thanking you, for a second chance I hardly deserve." The hand that had so nearly touched her before rose up again, his voice tremendously soft for a man of his demeanour. "It is something to discover after a lifetime of seeking greatness that in the end the measure of a man's importance is calculated in his children." His hand shakily brushed her cheek tentatively. "For all my sins, Heaven has still given me four such children as would make the greatest emperor living envious," he whispered, as his eyes filled again. "I've missed you so, my darling girl."

As she reached out and took his hand, I could see her own emotions were near breaking, and again I felt a surge of discomfort, as if I were an intruder. "I missed you too," she whispered.

I watched as the imposing figure of Arthur Thurlow drew his daughter close to him, and, for the first time in ten years, took her into a father's embrace, his hands continuing to tremble. His eyes shut tight, he held her close and firm against him, looking for all the world like a man who had been tossed about at sea for an eternity and had finally found the shore.

He held her quietly as she cried against him softly, her emotions finally brimming over, and he rocked her back and forth. Yet as I turned my head away, I found to my surprise that rather than seeing only the man I had loathed just two nights before, I could now easily imagine the man he once was, kind and loving, and how such a consoling and affectionate parental gesture would've occurred often with the daughter he had loved but forfeited for his prideful dream.

Despite his past, despite the kind of man he had been and that I had thought him still to be, I could not help but be deeply moved by the reunion all the same, and vastly impressed by the forgiving nature of his daughter.

It was a long time before either of them spoke again, as Thurlow drew back but did not release her, his look sorrowful. "I'm so sorry I drew you into this...so sorry that this has to be how we reconcile with my past and the threat of death hanging over us."

Pulling a rather plain handkerchief from her pocket, she gently dabbed her eyes. "I know...but these things will out," she agreed with a sigh. "Sometimes it takes a tragedy to see what is most important to us. However, I am sure this is only temporary. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson seem quite adept at their jobs."

He smiled, and I could not help but note again how much it changed his face and his entire demeanour. For it made him look youthful and vigorous and even more like his daughter. "Aye..." he agreed with a nod and glanced over at me. "They found you quick enough, make no mistake." He pursed his lips and smiled again at her. "I'll trust your judgement on them both. I can't fault them myself." Then with a shake of his head, he gazed down at her again and once more pulled her into an embrace and back out again. "Thank you, Helen," he said with complete sincerity as he gazed deep into the eyes that looked so much like his. "Thank you so much." His tone was filled with intense gratitude at this second chance with her, and it took him another moment to recover. "Now..." He swallowed and coughed gruffly, trying to restore some equilibrium. "Would you like to meet your rapscallions of brothers? Because they've been pestering me something awful to meet with you."

Miss Helen Thurlow was a handsome woman, not conventionally pretty or delicate, but the smile that formed on her face transformed her into a most beautiful woman indeed. "I think I would like that very much," she replied, wiping the last of her tears from her eyes and composing herself once more.

Reaching behind him, Arthur Thurlow rang enthusiastically for Goodwin, who on his instructions went and returned forthwith with the two boys, already in their nightshirts and dressing gowns, their slippers on their feet. Trooping in, Goodwin held them steady, one hand on either shoulder with a firmness testifying to the man's long experience of them, as he brought them to stand in front of their father's desk where the patriarch still stood with their sister seated beside him. For their part, the boys glanced curiously at her without trying to seem as if they were.

"Boys," Arthur said, his grey eyes dancing with delight and anticipation as their brown ones turned to him. "Andrew…" He laid one hand on one boy's head by introduction, before doing the same with the other. "Matthew, I would like to introduce you to Miss Helen Thurlow, your older and very much wiser sister." His smile widened as their eyes moved to her once more with rampant curiosity. "Say, 'How do you do,'" he instructed them.

Matthew, like his brother, gaped at her in awe before he stepped forward properly and stuck out his hand while attempting to solemnise his face. "How do you do, Helen," he said obediently. "I am Matthew."

Miss Thurlow smiled that sweet smile once more before taking his hand in hers. "A pleasure, Matthew. I look forward to getting to know you," she replied, before turning her attention to the other boy, who looked as though he had ants in his pants the way he was forcibly trying to keep himself still.

"How do you do!" he enthused, taking her hand and pumping it several times, which only caused her smile to grow in utter bemusement. "I'm Andrew! And I'm sure we're going to get along famously! Do you like cards? Or pirates?"

Matthew sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically. "I am sorry. He is what Mr. Goodwin calls incorri...incorrigible," he explained to her seriously as their father covered his mouth surreptitiously, and I must admit to following suit.

However, their sister tried her hardest at keeping a more serious expression. "Well...yes, I do like cards...and I'm afraid I do not know much about pirates, other than what I have read in Treasure Island or other books, Andrew...but I do agree, I think we will get along very well indeed."

Andrew practically bounced in his slippers with pleasure. "Oh, we can teach you all about pirates! And Papa reads to us from Treasure Island all the time! It's a marvellous book, don't you think?" he managed to get out all in one breath.

Matthew nodded in agreement as he gave her such a closely scrutinising look that would have done Holmes himself proud. "You look very much like Papa," he noted finally. "Maybe you could read to us too."

She smiled softly and glanced up at their father. "If Father does not mind, I do not see why not," she replied.

Their father sniffed and folded his arms with a serious look. "Well..." he drew out with a frown, shaking his head slowly and rather overdramatically, "I'm not sure."

"Oh Papa, please..." Matthew turned and gripped one end of his rich frock coat. "Please, Papa?"

Andrew was nodding up a storm and making a pair of eyes that would have put any puppy to shame. "Oh yes, Papa! Please!"

Their father looked down at them and stroked his chin. "Will you promise to give Goodwin no problems for the rest of the week...and say your prayers properly?"

Matthew looked at Andrew for confirmation that they were agreed on the deal. Andrew swallowed nervously, but nodded. "Yes, Papa," Matthew agreed on their behalf. "We promise."

"Very well...if your sister is agreeable, she may take my place tonight if she so wishes," Thurlow agreed.

"I would be honoured to," she replied with a slight incline of her head at the duo of red-heads, and extended her hands to them. "Though you will have to show me the way."

Matthew grabbed one hand and started tugging. "We'll show you! You have our room, so we're staying in the big guest room! It has the biggest bed...which is very good, because Andrew kicks in his sleep."

Andrew flashed his brother an indignant look. "I do not!" he fired back. "But you snore!"

"Do not!" Matthew retorted with a frown. "I have adenoids...the doctor said so!"

Andrew snorted loudly in reply, and took his elder sister's free hand. "You snore," he reiterated.

"Do not...and you do so kick, you kicked your covers right off last week dreaming you were playing football," Matthew pouted.

"Boys..." their father admonished lightly, "no arguing. Do you want to scare your sister off already?"

Matthew's cheeks flushed as he dropped his head. "No...sorry, Papa. This way..." he urged her, looking back up.

"Very well," she acquiesced, letting herself be led away. "But don't fear, boys," I heard her whisper. "I do not scare easily."

Thurlow watched them go and walked part way after them, a contented and joyful look in his eyes, before turning to me. "Thank you, Doctor," he said in such a heartfelt manner that it made me wonder what had happened to the man who had come to Baker Street such a short while ago. "Thank you for your efforts."

"I hardly did anything," I demurred. "Merely broached the subject…it was she who decided to come down here to face you."

"And I doubt she ever would have done so, if you had not agreed to be here with her," he countered, and slowly stuck out his hand. "Thank you for finding her and bringing her here, and thank you again for your help. I am still a little overwhelmed by what has happened. I did not in my wildest dreams think she would ever consider forgiving me."

After a moment I took his outstretched hand and shook it slowly. "Yes, well...from what I've observed, she's quite a remarkable young lady...very resilient and brave, but…" I paused, before continuing with a serious and honest tone. "All the same, I was surprised myself. But then," I added, gazing at him with a tight smile, and including him in my observation, "people have a tendency to surprise one, I've found."

His smile matched mine for a moment. "Now...if you'll excuse me, Doctor. I must find Harry and set these new agreements down before breaking the news of these developments to Ellen."

"How will she take this?" I asked him, my brow furrowing slightly.

"Badly," he replied with a philosophical tone. "Very badly indeed, but then there is nothing new in that, I'm afraid, Doctor."

He stepped out into the hallway, and we went our separate ways -- he to make good on his promises and confront his wife, and I to travel with Holmes to make an appointment to see the man who was, in effect, the reason why we were all here in this house.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: Thank you all again so much for the kind reviews! It's most gratifying to know that we are getting the tone right and that our characters are well rounded (one always fears that new characters will come out flat). Um...I think I must still be in Victorian speech mode...heh. Again thank you to all that read, and we look forward to hearing your thoughts as we continue to unravel the mystery. Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**

**_Edit: Thank you to Baskerville Beauty for pointing out small but significant woops! It has now been corrected...(blushes madly)...and on with the story!_**


	5. The Pride of Princes

_**Chapter Five: The Pride of Princes**_

Claridges of London was, as we arrived later that evening, abuzz as usual with the cream of visiting wealth and society to London. In its tasteful but beautifully appointed lounges and dining rooms, self made cattle and lumber barons from the United States of America -- sons of emigrants -- mixed with European nobility from families that could trace their roots back over a thousand years to Charlemagne and beyond.

However, even with such wealth and rank on show, it was vastly unusual for any one man to take over an entire floor of such a prestigious and expensive establishment as this hotel for his entourage. Such an act spoke volumes about both the status at which a man like Rajah Annand Mahindra considered himself to hold, and the depths of his silk lined pockets.

No doubt there were some in the foyers and lobbies of this hotel who deemed it to be typically ostentatious and in bad taste to be so overt with one's wealth and so arrogant of one's position as to flaunt it in front of both them and London as a whole, but it was, as Holmes clearly pointed out to me on our drive there from the Thurlow's home in Belgravia, precisely the statement that Mahindra wished to make.

The Rajah's bold and brash announcement of his arrival did two things -- it reminded everyone of his wealth, position, and friendship with the Queen, placing him in public scrutiny -- his every move watched, the most perfect of alibis -- and it kept him firmly in the mind of his target, Arthur Thurlow. This made it nigh on impossible for Thurlow to make any accusations against the Rajah without risking his own reputation and bringing down the wrath of the Palace and both Home and Foreign Offices against him.

As we approached the reception desk of Claridges, I could not help but notice the obvious impact Mahindra's arrival had had even on an establishment so used to foreign dignitaries and royalty…as beside the doors of one of the sumptuous lifts the hotel had installed stood an Indian guard, complete with turban.

"Yes, sir?" asked the desk clerk, raising his head to Holmes as we stopped by the long sweep of carved and polished mahogany that separated us. "May I help you?"

"Yes," Holmes replied, his glance drifting back from our Indian friend and the decidedly familiar looking curved blade he wore tucked into the tangerine silk sash that was tied around his strikingly brocaded cream tunic. "My name is Holmes, and this is my colleague Dr. Watson. We were wondering whether it might be possible for you to contact the suite of His Highness the Rajah Annand Mahindra, and ask whether he would be so good as to meet with us this evening?"

"Holmes?" The man's eyes widened suddenly, and his voice rose considerably. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Holmes nodded briskly, slightly irritated at the sudden announcement of his presence and the several glances from those seated and standing in the foyer that it garnered. "Yes," he said, leaning slightly forward, "and I would be obliged if you were slightly more discreet about it."

The desk clerk, who went by the name of Simmons according to his nameplate, nodded quickly. "Of course. I am sorry, Mr. Holmes," he apologized quickly. "I should have realized that you would not wish to be known. I have read a great deal about your exploits, and am the most tremendous admirer of your work. You are here on a case, yes?" he asked eagerly.

Holmes sighed, shooting a narrow eyed look at me, and I could virtually read his thoughts as he laid the blame squarely for the wide-eyed adulation he was receiving firmly at my writing's feet. My friend had quite the ego, and did enjoy its being stroked and quite considerably, but the timing of it was everything with him.

"I am _here_," he said firmly, turning his attention back to the young clerk, "to see His Highness…Rajah Annand Mahindra." His eyes moved to the wires of the telephone switchboard behind the hotel employee, and the look and smile he received in return were almost conspiratorial. I tried desperately to hide my own budding smile as the young dark haired Simmons actually reached up and tapped the side of his nose in classic covert hush-hush style, and nodded, leaving Holmes staring at him in bafflement.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," he breathed. "I understand…one moment." With a nod, he turned and went to take a seat in front of the huge vertical board that made up the internal telephone lines of the hotel.

"Watson," Holmes said, addressing me without turning his eyes from Simmons as he put on the headset and moved the plug switches around to get a connection to the Rajah's suite. "I believe I shall be taking an even keener interest in your writings from this point onwards…if I had wished such fan like reactions on my arrival, I would have remained an actor." He sighed long-sufferingly. "Something will simply have to be done about the overtly heroic style in which you write about me and our exploits."

I held in another chuckle and nodded, my reply solemn. "Of course, Holmes. You know you are quite welcome to edit my work and tone it down howsoever you see fit. Though, of course, people will find much to admire in you no matter what way I write you." I flattered him, knowing full well, of course, that Holmes had no intention of modifying my work one whit. The purple prose he continuously accused me of had, despite my efforts to disguise us, spread his fame far and wide, and it was doubtful he would ever jeopardize that.

The look he gave me was both arch and highly amused as he saw right through my ploy. "Really, Watson, you are the most shameful manipulator in your way."

This time I did laugh, chortling heartily until he quite suddenly grasped my arm, his hawkish eyes focused on something over my shoulder. "Watson," he said in lowered tones, "turn smoothly and unobtrusively, and look at the guarded lift."

Leaning slightly on the desk, I did just that, turning in time to see the turbaned guard bow his head quickly on the approach and arrival of a tall, slim, iron-grey haired man with chiselled features and a strong jaw, dressed immaculately in evening clothes. The guard, without question or hesitation, immediately opened the door to the lift to allow the Western man egress. The serious, strikingly clear blue eyes of the man met ours briefly before the guard closed the door, and the lift moved upwards towards the floor the Rajah occupied.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?" the whispered, clandestine tones of Mr. Simmons addressed him from behind us, causing us both to turn to face his quite apologetic face. "I'm sorry, sir, but his Highness's secretary says that while his Highness is most intrigued at the prospect of meeting such a prominent personage as yourself while in London, his itinerary is such that it will be quite impossible for the Rajah to meet anyone until after his dinner engagement tomorrow night. He respectfully suggests nine-thirty for drinks upon his return to his suite?"

"I see…" Holmes straightened, looking down at reception desk in thought.

"What shall we do, Holmes?" I asked quietly. "This is hardly something we can just leave hanging."

Holmes glanced over at the lift again. "It is not something we appear to have much of a choice about, Watson," he replied. "Given the nature of the security around him, we can hardly storm the place, and I doubt very much that I could bluff my way in in disguise." His long fingers thrummed on the desk lightly as he remained silent for a moment. "Very well, Mr. Simmons," he finally agreed with a nod. "Tell His Highness we shall return tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir!" Simmons replied enthusiastically, turning to go back to the switchboard.

"A moment, Mr. Simmons…" Holmes stopped him in his tracks, and the desk clerk turned back hurriedly. "The lift…" my friend added, indicating it with a minute nod of his head, "I presume that has been appropriated for the sole use of His Highness and his entourage?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," Simmons replied, nodding with a slightly aggravated look on his face. "It really is quite unprecedented, and, to be honest, highly discommoding for the other guests. But, because of the Rajah's connections with Her Majesty and the insistence of the Diplomatic Corps of the Foreign Office, the management had to accede to his request. Even down to the turbaned Turk over there." He frowned with another flash of irritation. "It just isn't right to have an armed man in the lobby like that…there are ladies present, after all!"

Holmes nodded pensively before asking, "Tell me, Mr. Simmons, that tall, middle-aged, Western gentleman with the bearing of a soldier that entered unhindered into the lift a few moments ago, might you know who he is?"

"To be honest, sir," Simmons replied, glancing at the lift, "I didn't see the man you spoke of, but if you say he entered unhindered into the lift, then it was most probably Sir Richard Maddesley."

"Sir Richard Maddesley?" I queried him.

"Yes, Doctor," Simmons affirmed, flashing a smile at me that showed that I, too, was included in his circle of admiration, even if it were to a lesser degree than my colleague. "He is with the Foreign Office, located in India, I believe. He travelled over from India with His Highness especially. He has long time connections with the Rajah, and is the only white man allowed in or out of that lift without being thoroughly checked both by his nibs over there and his even more heavily armed counterparts at the other end of the lift."

"Is the Rajah expecting some kind of attack?" I asked with a frown, glancing at Holmes, as such behaviour was completely at odds with a friendly visit and very much in keeping with what was going on with the Thurlows. "Keeping all these armed guards seems a trifle mistrustful, especially for someone so well connected and well regarded by the crown."

Simmons nodded in agreement. "You're right, Doctor, and it's caused no end of problems with the staff, who highly resent being subjected to being searched every time they go to deliver food or change the linens and clean…especially by…" He paused, and sighed. "Well, sir, there are those on the staff who object to being treated that way by…men such as them."

"Indians," I inferred clearly, not really surprised by such a reaction.

Simmons merely nodded again before replying, "They don't take kindly to being treated as thieves or potential murderers in their own city by people most of them regard as…well…savages, sir…and while I don't hold any such opinions myself, Doctor, Mr. Holmes, to be honest, all this security is actually only fostering ill feeling. And no one has ever explained to us why it must be so."

"I can imagine it must be quite disconcerting," Holmes said quietly. "Thank you, Mr. Simmons. You have been most helpful."

Simmons's face brightened considerably. "Really?" he enthused, before remembering himself and sliding back into conspirator mode. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. Glad to be of service, and if there is anything else you need, you need only ask…anything to further the course of justice and the law." With a quick, quiet nod, the young man turned and moved back to the switchboard to confirm our appointment with the Rajah for tomorrow night.

Unable to hide another smile, I turned and walked with Holmes back through the foyer. "Well," I commiserated with him, "at least you have garnered yourself another informant and in such grand surroundings."

"Watson, I have had two far less conspicuous and excitable informants on the staff of Claridges for several years now," he pointed out with a sigh. "I knew about the lift and the guards since yesterday after making some enquiries."

"You do…you did?" I asked, glancing at him in surprise before shaking my head. "What am I saying, of course you did…always two steps ahead of the game, eh Holmes?"

"Hardly, Watson," he replied, reaching for his cigarette case and opening it. "I am still flummoxed on several points. Most notably, why the Rajah has holed himself up as if he were the one fearful of attack as opposed to Thurlow…and my informants told me yesterday that no Indian, male or female, of his entourage has left the hotel by either front or back door, save for the Rajah himself on State visits and shopping trips. So I have yet to figure out how Mr. Thurlow's mysterious assailant could have delivered his exceptionally _pointed_ message straight to his office unseen. There are some pieces of the puzzle as yet unrevealed to us, as is the nagging suspicion that I am missing something obvious, and it is starting to annoy me greatly," he griped.

I nodded slowly, taking this in as we walked outside into the dark and Holmes indicated for the porter to bring up a cab for us. "Well…at least we know for certain it must be one of his men," I said, as Holmes lit up his Woodbine, and the smoke curled into the night air. "Did you see the blade the guard carried?"

"Yes," Holmes agreed, as the cab pulled up in front of us. "Virtually identical to the one Thurlow found."

Swinging around to face me suddenly, Holmes laid one hand on my arm and ushered me towards the cab. "Take this cab and return to Belgravia, Watson…there's a good chap, will you? I'd rather there be at least one of us on the premises tonight."

"What?" I asked with surprise, opening the door before he pushed me toward the cab in his zeal to send me on my way. "Where are you going?"

"To Baker Street," he answered as he guided me up the step and into the cab. "I have some researching to do and information I wish to gather," he added, as he closed the door behind me.

Turning and sitting, I looked out the window at him. "On _what_, Holmes?" I queried in mild exasperation as I was bundled off.

"I'll tell you in the morning, Watson…keep our charges safe during the night, and have breakfast ready for me, will you?" he called before walking over and signalling the cabbie to take off, while giving the horse a light slap on its rump. "Some toast and a lightly boiled egg, I think." There was an obvious smirk on his face as I passed by when the cab moved off, and the glow of his cigarette was the last glimpse I got of him as I headed back to the Thurlows' home.

* * *

I awoke the next morning feeling distinctly more refreshed than I had since before the constant business of the past two days had begun, and, after dressing and completing my toilet, arrived at the dining room with quite the keen appetite. 

However, when I arrived, I was most surprised to find our host alone. The two places that had been set for his sons were noticeable for the cleanliness of the plates and lack of twin red-heads sitting at them.

Taking a seat on the opposite side, I enquired, "Are the boys well this morning?"

Mr. Thurlow looked up from his cooked breakfast and raised an eyebrow. "Good morning, Doctor...and yes, they are quite well. Quite well enough to pester me for ten minutes to eat breakfast with their sister..." he answered with a smile before returning his eyes to his plate. "It seems she made quite an impression on them last night. So after asking Helen whether they might be too upsetting for Alice, the boys are now currently ensconced with both ladies in the drawing room."

He gestured at the long sideboard full of silver bowls containing porridge and the like and the warmers containing the cooked food. "Help yourself, Doctor…help yourself."

"Thank you," I replied with gratitude, and, taking my plate with me, went over to dish some eggs, kippers, and bacon onto it.

He nodded in reply and returned to his breakfast. "I trust you slept well?"

"Quite well, thank you," I agreed, and headed back to my seat, proceeding to tuck into my food as quickly as decorum would allow.

"Will Mr. Holmes be joining us?" he asked, eying my food consumption for a moment before returning to his more measured intake. Feeling a hint of embarrassment, I slowed my pace, and nodded.

"Yes," I replied, as soon as my mouth was emptied. "He is doing some research at the moment, but should be joining us this morning."

"Good..." he intoned with a nod, looking up at me as he reached for the tea. "Harry should be back also, and hopefully with the documents I sent him out with yesterday notarised. I was hoping the four of us might sit down and talk. I would like to put some theories of my own in front of Mr. Holmes and yourself and..."

He was interrupted by the opening of the door and the sweep of crinoline over the floor as Ellen Thurlow entered the well appointed dining room. Her chin in the air, she swept her eyes over both her husband and me with equal disregard.

"Where are the boys?" she demanded.

Thurlow returned his eyes and his attention to his eating. "Having their breakfast," he answered, truthfully enough.

"Where?" she pressed, taking a step forward. "In their room?"

I turned my head to my plate as well, having no wish to get involved with more of the family politics...especially with that unpleasant woman.

"No..." her husband replied as he dissected the rasher on his plate, "in the drawing room."

"_What?_" Her voice went as hard and flat as flint itself.

Putting his knife and fork down carefully before taking his napkin from his lap and laying it over his plate, our client looked up at her. "The boys asked me for permission to breakfast with their sister...and I allowed them to."

"_You what_?" Her tone cut like a knife as she took a step forward, her hands grasping the back of one of the dining chairs. "You let my sons breakfast with _that_ woman and her daughter?"

Thurlow rose to his feet slowly. "Her daughter," he said very deliberately, "happens to be mine also, Madam, and the boys' sister...and you would do well to remember that."

"Yours?" his wife scoffed. "Don't you play the proud Papa for me, Arthur. Her _father_...since when? You put her aside at the drop of a hat when I told you to!"

Thurlow's eyes narrowed instantly. "As you ask...since last night, when she and I had a long talk, and she agreed to allow me a second chance as her father." He barely paused as he drew himself up. "And while we're on the subject, I offered her and Alice everything they should always have had -- ten thousand a year, the house in St. Albans, proper medical care for Alice, and...access to her brothers."

If Arthur's eyes were narrow, his wife's stood out on stalks by the time he was done, her face alternately ashen, then flushing red with rage. "You did _what_?"

"You heard me, Ellen," he replied curtly and moved away from the table, heading towards the door. "That is my decision in the matter. What I settle upon them has nothing to do with you."

"Maybe not!" she spat at him. "But what my sons are exposed to has everything to do with me!" With a turn of her heel, she spun out the door before he could leave, her walk fiercely determined, and with a frown her husband followed after her.

Sensing that there would be some unpleasantness, I rose from my chair and hurried after them, hoping to be able to help with the situation should our client have need of it.

Ellen Thurlow marched to the sliding doors of the drawing room, and before her husband could reach her, flung them apart, her eyes blazing as they came to rest on her sons. "Matthew, Andrew! Out of there this instant!"

I watched in mortification as both of their normally smiling, happy expressions shifted rapidly into ones of resignation and a touch of fear, both of them wincing as one. However, in almost the time it took for a heart to beat once, Miss Thurlow rose to her feet and crossed the room. Grasping her stepmother's arm and forcibly pulling her from the room, she shut the door softly behind them.

"I would not have you make a scene and upset my mother, Madam," she said, her calm tone at odds with the flash of anger I saw for a moment in her eyes.

"How dare you!" the raven haired woman hissed at her. "How dare you lay hands on me in my own home!"

I glanced over to the main door, as it was opened and closed by Fagan's man on the outside, to see Holmes striding into the foyer. I then turned my attention back to the scene in front of me.

The younger woman merely crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "I believe that the drawing room was lent to us for our 'private' use?" she returned. "How dare _you_, Madam, barge in and upset a woman in such fragile health?"

"This, Miss Thurlow, is _my_ home...and you are here only under my sufferance! Lent or not, it remains mine, and I will come and go in my own home as and when I see fit, and most especially when it comes to any point regarding my sons!" Mrs. Thurlow countered. "You and no other force on the face of this planet, let alone in my own home, will stop me from going to where they are!"

Helen Thurlow, to her credit, showed no sign of being perturbed. In fact, she remained as calm and clear as she normally presented herself. 'A real lady,' as Mrs. Hudson had put it.

"Of course," she replied. "I would be happy to send them out to you, but just as you are free to roam about your own home, I am free to see to my mother's needs...which your husband has assured me will be considered at all times and met."

Thurlow's wife spun around at that, her furious dark eyes landing on her husband. "Arthur," she demanded with a sneer, "you will enlighten your...daughter…just who is the mistress of this house and mother to your heirs, and what that means!"

Our client remained quiet for a moment, and then nodded at his wife before turning to his daughter. "Ellen is indeed the mother of my heirs and the mistress of this house with the free and complete run of it, especially when it comes to the consideration of her children," he told her gravely.

His eyes then shifted back to his wife. "Unless, I...as the Master of this house and their father...determine otherwise," he continued brusquely. "And at which point, her desires become subject to mine. I have given Helen and Alice that room as their private sanctuary, Ellen. It is off limits except by their invitation. You agreed to this last night, and Helen is perfectly correct…you should not have disturbed them. Kindly remember it was _I _who gave the boys permission to be in there with their sister...they were not kidnapped, nor are they in any peril. I said they could be there, and that is an end to it!" By the time he had finished, his voice had descended into a low, rumbling growl that many a sane man would have had great anxiety about crossing its bearer.

If Ellen Thurlow was angry before, she was nearly apoplectic with barely suppressed rage now. "End, Arthur? End?" she hissed once more like an angry serpent. "No, husband, this is not the end...merely the beginning...I promise you." The unmistakable threat in her words was evident as she marched over to him and glared at him in a fashion Medusa herself would have been proud of. "I would speak with you in private...now!" she barked and swept up the stairs, brushing past Helen disdainfully. Her departure was watched in silence by everyone below until she had turned the wide landing and disappeared.

"Well now..." Holmes said from his vantage point, his tone amused and sardonic, "I see there is barely a moment to draw breath in the Thurlow household. Is it always this bracing at breakfast time?"

Despite the threats levelled at him, Arthur Thurlow gave out a low chuckle. "Mr. Holmes...you do not know the half of it."

Miss Thurlow turned to her father with a most contrite expression on her face. "I do apologise, Father. It was not my intention to cross swords with your wife." She sighed softly. "And I do not wish to appear ungrateful for your generosity."

Walking over to her, her father placed his hands on her upper arms and shook his head. "Nor do you," he assured her, "for it is poor enough generosity considering. And it was, I'm afraid, Ellen and not you who went to battle first." He paused with a swift glance up the stairs. "We shall see if it shall escalate into a war," he mused to himself, before looking back at her. "Was...your mother...upset?" he asked hesitantly.

The young woman shook her head in reply. "No...I do not think she noticed, and I managed to get Mrs. Thurlow out quickly before any harm could be done. Though I do think your sons could use some reassurance from their father that all is well. They seemed to be the ones most affected."

He nodded and gazed intently at the doors, and there seemed there such a desire to pass beyond them to what lay on the other side that it forced him to look away. "You're right, of course. If you will send them out to me?"

"Of course, Father," she replied, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before quietly opening the door and slipping back inside. A moment later, she reappeared with a boy's hand in each of her own, and I could not help but notice how nervous their expressions and postures were, as if they feared they were about to be punished.

Their father took a deep breath and beckoned them to him.

"Boys, I should like to apologise for the interruption in your breakfast with Helen and her mother. Your mother was labouring under a misapprehension about your whereabouts. She should not have called you out, and I have spoken with her," he told them, noting their worried faces, and smiled encouragingly at them. "Cheer up, lads. You have done nothing wrong."

Andrew seemed to brighten a little at his father's reassurance, but glanced around nervously as though he was afraid his mother would re-form out of the shadows.

The door opened again at the hand of one of Mr. Fagan's men stationed outside, and Thurlow's handsome young assistant, Harry, arrived and nodded at his employer, raising the briefcase he held. Returning the nod, the businessman returned his gaze to his sons. "I have a lot of work to do today, and must speak to your mother, but to make this up to you...if Helen and her mother are willing, how would it be if you spent the rest of the morning and afternoon with them…until afternoon tea at least?"

Both sets of brown eyes widened, and though Matthew reigned in his excitement, Andrew appeared to be nearly bouncing on his toes with it. "Oh, can we?" he exclaimed.

"You must ask your sister politely," he instructed them. "It is not my decision to make. She may already be tired of you scallywags."

Matthew nodded and turned to his sister. "If you please, Helen, we would be very grateful if you might let us spend the day with you? We promise we shall both be on our best behaviour." He nudged his brother at the end, and I put a hand over my mouth to hide the smile as Andrew nodded his head so enthusiastically I thought for sure it would fly off!

Miss Thurlow, though, gazed at each boy penetratingly in turn, but one could see the definite twinkle in her eyes, and after a moment she smiled widely. "I do not see why not. My mother seems to take kindly to your presence, and I for one could use a good game of cards."

I glanced over at Holmes to gauge his reaction as the livelier of the pair appeared to barely keep from exploding in excitement. My colleague, for his part, was scrutinising Miss Thurlow and her handling of the boys closely, the top of his cane tapping lightly against his chin.

Matthew smiled broadly. "Thank you, Helen," he replied, before turning back to his father. "Thank you, Papa...will you join us when you are done working?" he asked him hopefully. "We could play four handed whist!"

Mr. Thurlow's smile faded a little at his son's request, and he looked from his daughter to the closed doors beyond them all again, clearly thinking on the woman who sat inside, before he looked back to his son. "No, Matthew...it's best if it's just you and Andrew," he said quietly. "I will see you all for afternoon tea." Patting his son on his shoulder and mussing the other's hair fondly, he gazed at Helen, unable to avoid glancing at the doors once more before he turned to walk upstairs after the woman who was now his wife.

Miss Thurlow's keen grey eyes followed her father as he climbed the stairs before turning to me and Holmes once more. "Would you both care to join us?" she asked with a small smile.

"Yes," Holmes replied quite briskly, surprising me at his willingness to be immersed in such a family scene. "I believe we shall. Especially if you are in possession of some tea?" he asked her. "I have not yet breakfasted..."

She gave him a quick nod of her auburn head. "The tea may no longer be very hot, but I can ring Goodwin for a fresh pot. And we have more than enough to eat," she assured him.

"Excellent!" he exclaimed, tapping his cane on the floor. "Then lead on, Miss Thurlow. Watson?" he summoned that enquiring manner of his, as he walked forward and past me towards the door.

Glancing over at me with a bemused glint in her eyes, the young woman opened the door and ushered the boys, Holmes, and me inside.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: Thank you all again for such kind reviews! And Hermione Holmes...I just want to say it made our day to be called 'exquisite!' And again to BaskervilleBeauty...thank you for such close reading! It really thrills us to no end that we are hitting the mark just right, and I hope we do not disappoint. Again, thank you to all that have read and/or reviewed...it means a great deal. -- Aeryn (or aerynfire)_**

**_Addendum -- January 6th, 2006: Thank you so much to our beta reader, D'arcy (aka Savageland), for her editing of this chapter. We are very grateful.  
_**


	6. Matters of the Heart

_**Chapter Six: Matters of the Heart**_

Standing in the doorway for a moment, I watched Holmes wander over to the small table that still had the remains of the women's and boys' breakfasts, and, after filling a fresh plate with some eggs and toast and pouring a cup of tea, settle down in his chair to eat. On the other side of the room, over by the window, Miss Thurlow and the boys took out a deck of cards to start their game, while Mrs. Thurlow, who was seated in a large armchair, continued to gaze out the window, her eyes as glassy and distant as ever.

Closing the door behind me, I moved to the table and sat across from Holmes before reaching into my pocket for my cigarette case, and, after taking one for myself, offered it to him.

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes said, reaching out to take one and placing it down by his plate for when he had finished his meal.

Snapping the case closed, I replaced it in my inner jacket pocket, and, after lighting my own, sat back in my chair with a most expectant look on my face. "Well?" I asked unable to hold my questions in. "What did you find out?"

Looking over at the two boys excitedly discussing which card game was best to play this time, he took in Miss Thurlow's indulgent nature and returned to his meal. "Hmmm?" he asked, drawing his response out as he sometimes did to annoy me, while buttering his toast slowly.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, taking care to keep my voice low. "Now is not the time, old man! Out with it...I'm on the edge of my seat."

He gave my comfortably laid back position in the chair an evaluating glance before looking up at me, the edges of his mouth tugging upwards slightly. "For starters, my impatient friend, I put out some feelers to discover a little more about this Sir Richard Maddesley we caught sight of last night. Namely, I contacted a source of mine within Whitehall to see what could be ascertained about him. Knight of the Realm and member of the Foreign Office or not, I have a strong suspicion that Sir Richard's close positioning with the Rajah may have more than a little to do with the ease with which our would be assassin penetrated our client's office." He finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin as he sat back. "I hope to hear back from my source before our return visit to Claridges to discuss the challenge the Rajah left for Mr Thurlow." He paused, and gave me one of those expectant looks of his.

I found myself nodding slowly. "So we wait?"

He sighed and nodded. "Yes, Watson...we wait...we wait, and inform our client that the knife embedded in his desk was _not_ a warning as we had previously thought, but, as I said, hoping you would pick up on it..." He gave me the most long suffering of looks. "_A challenge_," he finished, picking up the cigarette I had offered him, and, after fishing a little in the pockets of his waistcoat took out some matches and lit it.

"My research into Hindi practices leads me to believe that The Rajah, contrary to all appearances, did not come here merely to murder our client in cold blood," Holmes informed me, drawing on his cigarette and exhaling.

"He considers himself above such things. Rather than a mere assassin, he considers himself, even at his advanced age, a warrior. I have been able to ascertain a little of the history of his rule and his battles, and there is no doubt he operates within the strictest codes of conduct and honour. Quite frankly, Watson, his Highness makes Lancelot appear undisciplined. The knife embedded in the desk was not a threat as we know it...rather it was a like a gauntlet thrown, a message from one king to another via a champion in the lists of old...and explains more than adequately why His Highness is both here and so securely guarded when he could so easily have stayed in India, and let someone else do his work for him from a safe un-seen distance."

He drew on his cigarette deeply once more. "The ritual is called _Triptii_. It merely means 'satisfaction' and deals with how a man might 'destroy his enemies' without losing his honour in mere vengeance…something he should rise above. _Triptii_ demands a fair fight and the issuing of a challenge to allow the target to respond in kind. The Rajah fully expects Arthur Thurlow to attempt to end this by stamping out _his_ life...hence his guards in the hotel." His brow creased lightly in thought. "The only thing is that something appears to have gotten lost in the translation. The upshot of it being that Arthur Thurlow has no idea that rather than being a simple target of assassination, he is, in fact, in a war of sorts."

Sitting back in my chair, I smoked quietly for a moment as I attempted to take this new information in. "Then, we should apprise the Rajah of this development... before there is bloodshed," I finally responded, leaning forward a little with a furrowed brow as a thought occurred to me. "Wait...could this loss of translation perhaps be deliberate? Perhaps someone else with a stake in all of this?"

Holmes nodded and gave me a very pleased look. "An astute question, Watson. Yes, it would make the most sense. It may well be that whoever the Rajah's champion is, he is not wholeheartedly sticking to his master's wishes in all this, and that would indicate someone with a strong personal stake in all this…someone who has an emotional investment, but not the same core value structure as his Rajah Master…" He glanced across the room at Miss Thurlow, his voice descending even lower. "If I am correct, Watson, there is even a chance that Miss Thurlow is not a target of the Rajah at all. It is doubtful so honourable a man would target an innocent in vengeance. I believe she may simply be the target of his more ruthless arm…the Rajah may not even know she is a target."

"But who?" I asked, completely at sea about who this rogue player could be.

"Who, Watson? That particular _who_, is, I believe, where Sir Richard Maddesley may fit more fully into the picture," he replied, leaning forward again. "We will have to wait until I get word from the Foreign Office, but I will gladly wager with you now that Sir Richard…as he is now...was in India at the time all of this happened, and was, at that time, acquainted with Annand Mahindra and his court..._and_ has a highly personal stake in all of this."

"He does?" I queried, sitting back once more and drawing deeply on my cigarette. "How would a diplomat have such a high personal stake with this whole sordid mess?"

"A diplomat may not..." Holmes replied in a low voice. "A young serving army officer attached to the court of a Rajah as the British Government's liaison and acquainted with, as Mr. Thurlow put it, the most strikingly beautiful and proud daughter of that Rajah may indeed have a stake in it." His eyes peered at me closely. "Think of it, Watson -- if she could make such a strong impression on our client in so short a time and in such adverse conditions, imagine what effect she might have had on a young man who got to know her in her natural environment?"

I felt my eyes widen slowly as the inevitable thought occurred. "Surely, Holmes, you are not suggesting..."

"I am suggesting nothing...merely positing, Watson," he interrupted, tapping his cigarette onto his plate. "But it is hardly inconceivable that a young Englishman might fall in love with a noble Indian princess and carry that flame inside of him through the years, the desire for revenge smouldering inside of him. Given your penchant for the romantic, I would think it would be something you would naturally gravitate towards." He smiled as he flicked the ash of his cigarette into a highly decorative, lacquered Chinese ashtray on the end table beside him.

"Consider also, the use of The Bible as the additional warning. The Bible, as we said previously, is not common in India. It is decidedly odd, then, that it should be used in tandem with the challenge khukuri. It is not something that is a part of the _Triptii_ challenge process. It has been added, and the quotation _'An Eye for an Eye'_ doesn't speak of a fair fight...a battle..but rather of out and out revenge in a Judeo/Christian manner." He shook his head and sighed. "There is a decidedly Western influence in all of this, Watson, old chap."

I nodded mutely and had opened my mouth to respond when I felt a prickling on my back, as if I was being watched. Turning my head, I found that indeed I was...by Mrs. Thurlow of all people, her cloudy amber eyes almost boring a hole through me with a, before she turned to my companion.

"Mrs. Thurlow," Holmes acknowledged quietly with a respectful nod of his head.

She stared at him unblinkingly for a moment before whispering softly, almost too softly for me to hear, "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. And all the King's horses and all the King's men...couldn't put Humpty together again." With an almost sage nod at him, she turned back to her window to watch the birds roosting on the trees.

"Indeed." Holmes nodded, agreeing with the sentiment without a trace of irony. "Indeed."

I watched her for a full minute, but it seemed that she had again lost herself into whatever world her mind had made for her. I turned back to my friend, my puzzlement most certainly written on my face.

He gave me a small smile. "Mrs. Thurlow, for all her fluctuating lucidity, is quite the perceptive woman, Watson."

I quirked a questioning eyebrow at him. "Undeniably..." I replied with some doubt.

Holmes inhaled quietly and leaned closer, still glancing over at Helen Thurlow. "Watson, I fully expect the first real shot across Arthur Thurlow's bow to occur today...most probably while you and I have been lured back to Claridges once more to meet with him. We must endeavour to keep him safe while we are away and speaking with the Rajah...to whit, I have enlisted the aide of the Irregulars to populate the area and act as a web of eyes and ears to stretch the awareness of Mr. Fagan's men."

He set about showing me with condiments what he had in mind in terms of creating a cocoon of safety around the area. "I will alert the local constabulary via Lestrade not to harass the Irregulars, who will stand out somewhat, it must be said, in the surroundings of Belgravia...but with all this in place, it will surely be impossible for anyone to get near the place unseen," he said confidently.

I nodded in agreement, noting that his plan would most certainly turn this place to an impenetrable fortress.

Sitting back again, he continued, "Once we are returned, we must consider more strident measures to keep our client and his family safe."

"Such as?" I asked curiously. "A bodyguard at all times?"

"No..." Holmes dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head. "That alone will not suffice. We may have to send the family into hiding until we can negotiate some kind of agreement for, at the very least, his family's safety."

I heard a rustle of fabric behind me and turned to find Mrs. Thurlow now standing next to me, her eyes fixed on Holmes. "_Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary; Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore; While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping; As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door, ''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more.'_" She stared hard at him. "Nevermore...nevermore."

Holmes stubbed his cigarette out on his plate and stood up to face her. "I hope to change that particular outcome, Mrs. Thurlow."

Her eyes continued to bore into his. "_Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 'Sir,' said I, 'or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping; And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door; That I scarce was sure I heard you.' Here I opened wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more._"

He looked at her curiously, a small frown on his face. "I believe, Watson, there is again something more Mrs. Thurlow would have us know...though this time, I am somewhat at a loss…"

If he was at a loose end, I could only stare at the scene completely stupefied, and noticed that except for her and Holmes, so was the rest of the room.

She cocked her head to the side, her lips pulling into a sad smile, even as some of the lucidity already bled out of her eyes. "_And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting; On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor; Shall be lifted---nevermore!_"

Her daughter rose from her seat across the room and made her way over to us. "Mother...is there something you wish for?" she asked gently.

Mrs. Thurlow, however, took the last few steps to my companion and placed a hand on his chest, whispering adamantly, "Nevermore...nevermore." Taking her hand in both of his gently, Holmes looked into her eyes, and tried to read the light there before it faded completely. "Rap, rap..." she breathed to him, before turning her eyes to her daughter. "Is it time for tea, Helen?" The usual almost dream-like quality had returned to her voice.

I stepped forward at seeing the uncomfortable look on Miss Thurlow's face, and took her mother's hand from Holmes's, leading her over towards the card game. "No, Mrs. Thurlow, not yet. Would you like to sit with me for a while?" I asked, seating her in an armchair next to me so she could observe the game in comfort, and, gaining no response, gave her a small smile before sitting down with the boys. They stared at the older woman for a moment before turning to me.

"Are you going to play with us now?" Andrew asked with no small amount of enthusiasm.

"Most certainly," I replied, returning his grin, and proceeded to shuffle and deal out the cards.

Holmes, meanwhile, turned to Miss Thurlow, and with a tight smile indicated for her to take a seat, waiting for her to do so before seating himself before her.

"I apologise, Mr. Holmes," she whispered over to him. "I have no idea what could have come over her. I do not believe she has spoken that much in over a year."

He nodded thoughtfully for a moment as he took her statement, just as he did everything, on board. "If you'll forgive me, Miss Thurlow, I believe her talkativeness has much to do with the proximity of your father," he voiced quietly. "Watson told me of your talk with him last night...and your first steps towards reconciliation. I believe that your mother, for all that she has, like yourself, undoubtedly suffered, has never reached the point of actively hating your father. I believe that her actions were motivated in some small way by concern for him."

The young woman gave him a gentle smile. "My mother could no more hate than draw breath, Mr. Holmes. It is simply not in her nature." She glanced over at her for a moment before turning back to my companion. "She is deeply hurt...but I do not remember her ever saying even an angry word about him. She could always see inside someone and know their best and brightest features, even if they did not know them themselves."

"I see," Holmes replied, "and from what Watson told me of what your father said last night, it may also be the case that she took a lot of the blame upon herself." He looked over at Mrs. Thurlow. "Gentle souls, such as your mother, often do. She may have blamed herself for not defending her husband more to her relatives and the wedge that drove between them...and, most unfortunately of all, for her inability to provide him with the son he desperately wanted."

Turning back from where the older woman was seated, he focused his attention back on her daughter once more. "I can't help feeling that as your father was the cause of her illness...it is he who holds much of the key to your mother's recovery."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "It is possible," she acquiesced. "She has always felt things most deeply. I too have often wondered if perhaps she took on more blame than she should have. But after her...accident...she retreated so fully, I was sure it was simply heartbreak. Perhaps, after all this time...the blame is still there, no matter how misplaced." Her gaze became slightly more intense. "What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?"

He regarded at her closely before coming to a decision. "Miss Thurlow, you have shown thus far that you are a woman with a good head on your shoulders, and not given easily to upset or exaggerated reactions to what is going on around you. I feel, therefore, that I can tell you I believe there is good reason to think that this situation with your father may not be easily or quickly resolved. As a result, it may well be that you and your mother will be spending some considerable time with your father and his family..." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and pressing the palms of his hands together. "At some point during that process, when you feel your mother might be strong enough, you may wish to consider letting him meet with her."

His gaze turned thoughtful, even as he continued to watch her reactions carefully. "It is odd that your mother chose to quote 'The Raven,' if you'll pardon the poor pun," he continued, smiling just a little. "A poem about a descent into madness at the loss of a loved one. She may well have meant more than that in its quotation to me," he said musingly to her. "But the fact remains, it is the loss of one dear to her that has done this to her, taken her to this dark and melancholy place. I have read the works of Emil Kraepelin as well as many other alienists and physicians of the mind, and with your mother it is as you say...an injury...a deep and abiding hurt in her heart...and only one person holds in his power the healing of that hurt." He sat back a little in his chair and laid his arm along the table. "Just as he did with your own hurt."

Glancing up from my hand of cards, I saw her eyes narrow ever so slightly as she took in what he had said to her, weighing it carefully and trying to resolve it against her own emotions, which I could tell erred to the protective. As she glanced over to her mother again, her expression softened and she nodded. "My mother never says anything that she does not mean," she admitted, turning back to him. "Her choice had a purpose. Perhaps it was about herself, perhaps about my father, perhaps even about you...or maybe all three or neither. It is hard to tell anymore. However, I am forced to agree...perhaps meeting with my father would allow her some peace, or at the very least resolution."

"Consider it, Miss Thurlow," Holmes agreed softly with an encouraging tone. "That is all you need do for now. Your mother shows signs of great perceptiveness in those moments when she surfaces. I believe that everything she was still exists within her, and very much hope that would indicate that, someday, it may be possible for you to have the mother you once knew returned to you, for the most part, as she once was."

A ray of hope seemed to light in her eyes, and she gave my friend a quiet smile. "I have wished for that for many, many a year, Mr. Holmes. If there is any chance, then I will do what must be done," she told him firmly, glancing over at her mother, surprised to see her watching the two of them with a quiet smile.

The flash of awareness in the older woman's amber eyes was only there a moment as she met Holmes's once more. "Never more," she told him with an almost playful scolding tone before the light dimmed, and she turned to gaze lazily at a potted plant.

The not quite frown returned to his brow again as he once more took in her remarks to him and sat back to reconsider her words to him, tapping his mouth lightly with his steepled index fingers. "Your mother, like your father, is quite a remarkable person...flawed yes...but then remarkable people generally are. I hope that I get the opportunity to meet her in the full of her health one day, Miss Thurlow," he told her.

"I believe she'd like that, Mr. Holmes," she replied, turning to gaze at him again with her keen grey eyes.

"Well then, Miss Thurlow," he said, smiling a little wider, "you may assume that one day when this is resolved, I shall gladly keep that appointment, and call on you both."

A smile touched her lips as well. "Then, I shall endeavour to make sure I have plenty of tea."

Reaching into his pocket, Holmes pulled out his cigarette case and opening it, glanced at her. "Do you smoke, Miss Thurlow?" he asked with an evaluating look.

She shook her head, the smile still on her face. "No," she replied, as she turned to the table to pour herself a cup of tea.

There was a definite hint of approval in his nod, for in his opinion it was an unseemly vice for ladies. The second part of his question followed quickly. "Do you have any objections to my partaking?" he queried, picking up one slender cylinder of tobacco.

Picking up her cup, she turned to him with a look of surprise. "No," she replied. "Please...feel free. It is Indian tobacco, is it not?" Her eyebrow quirked up as she inhaled quickly.

He looked at her in surprise. "Yes...for a lady who does not smoke, that is a rather acute observation and shows a keen nose, especially when the tobacco is as yet unlit."

She shook her head and sipped her tea. "Not at all, Mr. Holmes. My father used to smoke Indian tobacco quite often when I was a child. The unique scent has stayed with me," she explained. "But I thank you for the compliment all the same."

Nodding slowly, Holmes lit his cigarette, drawing on it as he watched her before he slipped back into his chair with his eyes closed in comfortable contemplation, smoke curling around his head, and Miss Thurlow quietly sipping her tea across from him.

* * *

We spent the morning guard duty mostly entertaining the boys with even Holmes breaking his concentration for a hand or two with them. As the afternoon progressed, at times the atmosphere was so companionable and familial that one almost forgot the dark cloud that hung over the entire household. At least until Holmes would excuse himself to return to his seat to read a little from some of the books on India that he had had delivered to him shortly after his arrival, thumbing through the reference material, or moving to stand by the French windows that opened up onto the veranda and the steps that led down to the tree lined long back garden of the Thurlow household, persistently returning to the problem at hand and the parts of the puzzle he still felt were clearly missing. 

Holmes stayed with us throughout the morning and the bulk of the afternoon, departing from our presence only once for a half an hour or so.

Finally, at four o'clock that evening right on the dot, there was a knock on the door and Goodwin entered, extending an invitation for the boys, myself, Holmes, and Miss Thurlow to join the master of the house for afternoon tea in his study while Goodwin remained with Mrs. Thurlow.

The boys were up like a shot and taking hold of their sister's hands nearly dragged her bodily from the room, the combination of crumpets and having their father and sister together with them to satiate their vast curiosity far too good to resist. Rising up, I looked at Holmes, and, waving me on, he stood up to follow.

The boys' eyes were bugging out with delight as we entered the study, for the table our client had had laid out for tea was laden with sandwiches of all kinds, cakes, crumpets, scones with jam and cream, and biscuits of all sort, as well as tea and coffee. A sumptuous spread and one that Thurlow, seated beside the genial young Mr. Hant, received due reward for with a pair of exuberant hugs from his sons and a gaggle of questions about what they could eat and how much.

Hushing and reminding them of their manners gently, he bade the boys to sit until their guests were seated, and then he looked over at his daughter with a quiet smile. "Helen, perhaps you might do the honours?" he asked her.

"Of course, Father," she replied, flashing him a quick smile, and rose up and set about filling the cups, asking each of us what we would like in it.

As Hant responded to Miss Thurlow's question, her father's gaze, like mine, was drawn to the way the young man was watching her, his look keen and vastly interested, his eyes following her every movement. Our client's gaze met mine, and, for a moment, he smiled knowingly.

"Harry..." he said, lifting up the cup that his daughter had just attended to for him and sipping on it, "I don't believe I have properly introduced you to my daughter, have I? Of course not." He shook his head as he answered his own question. "You only heard of her for the first time three days ago!"

The raven haired, handsome young man dragged his eyes from her and flushed slightly. "Yes, sir, Mr. Thurlow...and no, sir. I haven't had the particular pleasure of an introduction yet."

The businessman looked at his daughter. "Miss Helen Thurlow, this is my assistant Mr. Harold Hant, a young man of quiet intelligence, charm, and, most necessarily for me who has none, tact."

Hant shook his head, and smiled. "You underestimate yourself, sir," he replied as he rose out of his chair and offered her his hand. "Miss Thurlow," he continued, turning that smile to her, his eyes on her once more, "it is my great pleasure and good fortune to meet you."

Placing the teapot back on the table, she took his hand and inclined her head respectfully. "Mr. Hant," she returned with a gentle smile, her eyes taking him in and evaluating him much as she had when she first encountered Holmes and me. "A pleasure, I am sure. Have you worked for my father long?"

"Not quite six months, Miss Thurlow," he replied, his gaze apparently riveted to her face, much to her father's growing amusement. "I came to him just after his partner, the late Mr. Balfour, passed away in his sleep. Your father was in need of someone to help him with the extra work load, and was good enough to think I might be the man for the job."

"Now…now...lad…" Arthur interrupted, patting him on the shoulder, "I've no use for false modesty, as you well know by now. You came highly recommended to me, and were, indeed, just the man for the job."

"I'm sure you have filled the role most admirably," she added with that same smile that could boost a man's confidence, the one she had graced me with the day before, but seeming to take no outward notice of the intensity of Hant's gaze. "My father relies on you a great deal it seems, and he does not allow just anyone that kind of confidence."

"Where were you employed before, Mr. Hant?" Holmes asked before the young man, smiling even more broadly than before, could reply to her. His gaze wavered between the decided preferred object of his attentions and Holmes across the table from him.

"I held a sales position with Fortnum and Mason, Mr. Holmes," he replied smoothly, taking the opportunity to have some of his tea. Handing Holmes his cup, Miss Thurlow returned to her seat as well, sipping on hers as she observed my friend and her father's assistant.

With a nod of thanks to their hostess, Holmes took some of his tea and nodded. "I see such a sales background would have helped, I'm sure."

"Yes, sir," Hant agreed with a smile. "I worked in their import/export section, so that gave me a head start with Mr. Thurlow's business."

Thurlow nodded before adding, "The lad is multi-lingual. Very, very handy to have around the place...he can speak, what is it..._five_…languages?"

"Six, if you count the Swahili," he corrected, lowering his head, somewhat embarrassed by the praise, and when he raised it again his eyes were on Helen Thurlow once more, a slightly sheepish smile on his face.

"Most impressive," she assured him with a quick smile and incline of her head. "At least to me, for I can only speak two...and my French is much disused."

"I'm sure you exaggerate and your French is in fact perfectly charming," he replied in an equally encouraging manner. "As for me, my French is not too impressive. I travelled extensively as a young man...and I picked up a lot of them as a child. You know how absorbent young minds are…they pick up on things and never let them go." His eyes moved to her brothers. "Just like these two young men," he added, shooting them a mock aggressive glare, to which they grinned broadly.

"Papa..." Matthew asked, tugging on his father's coat, "are you going to let Harry marry Helen?"

Both their father and Hant nearly choked on their tea, while Miss Thurlow's eyes widened to nearly saucer proportions.

"What..." Arthur gasped, coughing and smacking his chest lightly, "what are you _talking_ about, Matthew?"

Matthew frowned at the adult's seemingly total obliviousness to the obvious.

"It's quite obvious, Papa, that Harry likes her. Can he marry her, Papa?" Andrew asked with no small amount of enthusiasm

Matthew nodded in agreement. "Harry is all googly eyed over her," he pointed out. "And Harry is very handsome and dashing, and Helen very pretty..._and_ their names both begin with H!" he finished, as if that were the clincher.

Their father snorted, this time from amusement, and glanced at his daughter and young Mr. Hant, the latter of whom looked like the earth could swallow him up.

Miss Thurlow, however, though flushing a rather pink shade, merely shook her head. "I'm afraid that is entirely out of the question," she told the boys. "No offence to Mr. Hant, who I am sure would make a wonderful husband, but I am in no position at present to marry anyone...nor would I wish to marry someone I had just met. I am afraid I am a little old fashioned, boys...when I marry it will be for love, and love only." Giving them both a quick smile, she turned back to her tea, and sipped on it, almost grateful to its presence.

Matthew frowned in confusion. "But how do you know you won't love Harry?" he queried, looking over at Harry closely. "He is very nice." He turned back to his sister with an inquisitive expression. "And what position do you need to be in to marry Harry?" He grinned, and glanced at his brother. "Marry Harry...it rhymes!" he enthused, nudging him.

Andrew chuckled and nodded in that head bobbing way of his. "Harry and Helen Hant!" he enthused. "All H's!"

Matthew giggled. "It is all _very _perfect," he pronounced, and then smiled back at her. "I thought you just needed a church and a vicar...what other position do you need, Helen?" he asked her again.

His sister looked, for the first time since I and Holmes had met her, entirely flustered. "It's...it's complicated Matthew," she replied, putting down her cup and standing quickly. "I...I should go check on my mother," she mumbled quickly, and with a polite if brisk nod, she almost ran from the room.

"Girls are strange," Matthew huffed watching her go. "I thought they liked to talk about mushy stuff like love...and weddings...and babies."

Andrew nodded, his expression matching his twin's. "What position does she need to be in, Papa?" he asked with puzzlement. "Does she need to stand on her head or something?"

Thurlow chuckled again as he looked at his son. "In general it's the man who stands on his head." He smirked before explaining, "Your sister is talking about things like a dowry, and seeing her mother safe and cared for, boys." He leaned forward as he continued, "And as for liking to talk about _mushy_ stuff...ladies do...but..." He paused with nod at Harry on the sly, who caught it and flushed even deeper. "Not in front of a prospective beaux, boys."

"Ohhhh..." Matthew nodded in understanding, before asking, "What's a dowry?"

I glanced over at my colleague to see what his reaction was to all this, and the amusement was written large across his face, although hidden behind an almost permanently raised tea cup.

"A dowry, Matthew," their father answered, "is the wealth a woman brings with her into a marriage. Many young women, your sister included, feel strongly that a woman should bring something tangible with them, as a matter of pride, into a marriage. Many don't marry until they have a suitable dowry. Though she is not yet aware of it, that is something your sister no longer has to worry about." He ruffled Andrew's hair as the boy bit into a jam and cream covered scone, coming away with a red and white moustache. "Oddly enough," he continued, "thanks to Harry here...who took some documents I had drawn up and redrawn will to be notarised...now your sister is to be a lady of property...just like you boys."

I barely contained my look of pleasure at Thurlow's so rapidly following through on the previous evening's commitments to his daughter and first wife, and immensely glad that Miss Thurlow was finally to have some security in her life.

"You have changed your will?" Holmes inquired finally, lowering his tea cup with a curious look on his face.

Thurlow nodded slowly in reply. "Some minor adjustments to..." He paused, catching the boys' eyes on him, and grew obviously uncomfortable talking about such things in their presence. "Boys, take your sister's tea and some cakes into her will you, and don't pester her anymore about marriage," he told them firmly.

The twins exchanged that look that all young children do when they know they are being sent from a room on a pretext so that the adults can talk freely, but with a sigh they dutifully filled a plate and took two cups of tea...one for 'the silent lady'…and left the room carefully with their load.

After they departed, our host sat back in his chair. "You might as well know, gentlemen, that I have changed my will to give my daughter equal custody of the boys with my wife should anything happen to me."

Holmes glanced over at me and put his tea down. "That is quite a development after just one day, Mr. Thurlow...and your wife's position on this?"

"Deadly opposed..." he replied, "or at least it would be, if she knew anything about it, that is. Currently, only we four here know." Our client sighed as he gathered his thoughts. "The fact of the matter is, gentlemen, as Harry here can testify...my marriage to Ellen is not a good one, never has been. But that is no one's fault but mine. The boys though...the boys are a different story. Their mother scares them. They want to love her, and I can see them try, but she is too self absorbed and concerned with how they are her future to let the love she undoubtedly has for them shine through in any other way but over-protectiveness and strictness. It is something that has gotten worse with her since the death of our first boy, Barnaby." He shot a look towards the door. "In addition, the boys both know she uses them to manipulate me. They need someone who can show them affection for at least a part of their lives...I believe Helen can and will do that.

"Yesterday, Ellen threatened to divorce me for what I did...backing Helen over her. Threatened to take everything that was going on and drag it in front of the courts...the only thing that stopped her was my pointing out that if she did, everything she had done would be dragged out for all London to hear too, and while she may have had money, any chance of social position, something she craves even more than I, would evaporate with it." He rose to his feet and stretched. "I will spend the rest of my life with her, I know that...and that will be my punishment for what I have done...but I will not see the boys punished for it. They will have me until I die, and she can do nothing to me once I am dead, and they will have Helen then."

Reaching for a plate, he placed some sandwiches on it before sitting back with a distant look. "Of course, there's no telling when my death might occur...tomorrow...or twenty years from now."

It was Holmes's turn to sit forward, and he gazed at our host with an expression of utmost seriousness. "Mr. Thurlow, there is something you should know..." he began before telling our client all about his discovery of the _Triptii_ challenge and his suspicion of a Western hand in all this, as well as his inkling that some kind of attack might occur tonight when he and I were absent from the house on a return visit to the Rajah.

"But..." Thurlow said wide-eyed as Holmes finished, "could he seriously expect me to attack him? If I even attempted such a thing, I'd be up on trial surely..."

Holmes inclined his head in agreement. "That could indeed be his intent, Mr. Thurlow. It could be he knew because of your prominent position, you would never stand trial for his daughter's death…but if you killed him in plain view of London Society...an old man and a friend of the Queen, there was no way you could avoid justice," he opined. "However, personally, I don't believe that to be the case; I believe he is living the spirit of this battle to the absolute maximum, and should you have succeeded in killing him, that would have been an end to the blood feud...over and done with...no prosecution brought. But I cannot say, either way."

Thurlow rose swiftly before wandering to his drinks cabinet, where he poured himself a stiff scotch and downed it quickly. "I don't know what to say, gentlemen. There is no way I could raise my hand against him, not unless he were to walk in here himself and try to harm my family. Then, it would be self defence." He glanced back at Holmes quickly. "But, Mr. Holmes, if what you say is true, then hasn't his will been undermined by whoever it is he has working for him not giving me the proper challenge?"

"Precisely..." Holmes confirmed with a nod, his eyes glinting, "just as Watson pointed out earlier. If my hypothesis is correct, we have something of a loose cannon on our hands, and I believe in that we may have the breaking of this stand off."

"What do you mean, sir?" Hant asked, putting down his cup and listening intently.

"If...and I stress IF...the Rajah is as moral and bound by strict tradition as it appears...then to have been operating under an unfair advantage over an opponent will render him dishonoured," Holmes explained quietly. "If that point could be brought home to him, then we may have the beginnings of a point of negotiation in order to find some other method of resolving this."

"But..." Hant voiced with a frown, "she was his daughter. He would never give up his vengeance on so trivial a point, would he?"

"Honour, Mr. Hant..." Holmes sat back, steepling his fingers as he answered, "is never trivial in the noblest of minds...and if there is one thing that is apparent, it is that Annand Mahindra carries himself nobly. His search for his daughter is not about vengeance, it is about restoring honour, both hers and his. He would no doubt sacrifice everything rather than face dishonour. If he feels strongly enough that he has been dishonoured by his man, he could call him off."

Thurlow walked quickly back to his chair. "Do you believe so, Mr. Holmes?" he asked with a frown, his voice straining to contain any hope.

"I believe, Mr. Thurlow, that it is most certainly worth the risk of leaving here tonight after dinner to try," Holmes confirmed, picking up a small cucumber sandwich and popping it in his mouth confidently.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: Greetings and many thanks again to all that have read and/or reviewed. It truly means the world to us. :) Okay, now to address some notes...heh..._**

_**1. BaskervilleBeauty: This is the year 1888 (August 20-23 to be exact)...and yes, phones were invented by this point and were very likely used in the most posh of hotels (LFire knows her research...:) ), and I think you got confused on the crinoline...we didn't mean a crinoline, but the fabric which was used in petticoats at that time. As for Holmes being an actor, I know I read this in a story somewhere, and indeed Baring-Gould does say it, though I believe Klinger - who is the newest authority with an annotated set - does say he was as well... As for the plot...ah that will be giving the game away...snicker**_

_**2. J.A. Lowell: Glad you are enjoying as well! Your comments were a real treat to read I must say! Yes, we know Holmes's eyes are grey (as are Mycroft's...heh), but we decided to make them hazel (yup, a slight deviation from cannon) to make it a dedication to Jeremy Brett...call it our personal touch. :)**_

_**Thank you all again, and we hope you are enjoying Chapter Six!**_

_**Addendum -- January 6th, 2006: Thank you again to D'arcy for beta reading this chapter it is very appreciated. **_


	7. Love's Labours Lost

**_Chapter Seven: Love's Labours Lost_**

As the dinner hour approached, Holmes and I found ourselves comfortably smoking by the fire in the drawing room, accompanied by none other than Mrs. Alice Thurlow. She had barely moved at all during the rest of the day, and, with the small exception of giving what could only be called dreamy smiles at the twins, she seemed simply content to gaze out the French doors into the garden -- the garden that her daughter was currently exploring, having gone to take the evening air.

"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home...your house is on fire...your children have gone..." sing-songed the woman sitting next to me, breaking the genial silence with the suddenness of her remark.

Holmes lowered his cigarette and flicked the remains into the hearth as he observed Mrs. Thurlow closely. "I wonder as to her use of rhyme and poetry, Watson. There is meaning in it more often than not, I'll warrant...but I wonder what it signifies for her herself and her mind? A childhood regression, perhaps?"

I opened my mouth to reply, only to hear the sound of a man shouting "Intruder" cutting in. Rising at once to my feet, I threw my cigarette into the fire and pulled my revolver from my jacket pocket.

"Miss Thurlow, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, aiming for the French doors and moving through them quickly. "She is alone outside!"

I raced for the door and froze, hearing Mrs. Thurlow continue to hum as if nothing were amiss. "Holmes...what about her mother?" I asked urgently, motioning to the older woman in the chair.

Holmes looked back quickly from the doorway. "You have a gun, Watson. Stay within sight of the windows and Mrs. Thurlow…give yourself a clear shot, while I search for our wandering Miss Thurlow."

Moving to the edge of the veranda and keeping an eye open both ways, Holmes left me behind at the bottom of the steps as he moved out into the large tree filled garden and the gathering gloom. Inside the house, clear pandemonium could be heard as people ran thither and yon to check on the safety of all involved, and then just as loudly if not louder than before came a booming cry.

"Ah will yez all whisht!" came the voice of Mr. Fagan. "It is nothin' more than the lads' small cat movin' with the shadows!"

As I relaxed and lowered my gun arm, my focus moved entirely to the garden as there was a rustle, and Holmes emerged with the rather bewildered Miss Thurlow.

"I believe I heard the mellifluous tones of our Mr. Fagan call the all clear, Watson?" he enquired lightly as they approached.

I nodded in confirmation. "Yes, apparently the cat spooked one of his men," I drawled, feeling rather annoyed at the whole scenario.

"Poor Mr. Beans," the young woman replied with a hint of a smile. "I suppose he got more of a fright than any of us."

"I'm not so sure you could speak for Watson here," Holmes replied to her, teasing me openly. "He was up like a startled deer." Shooting a small smirk at me, my friend moved to lead Miss Thurlow back up the steps at which I stood to the veranda proper, his eyes going to the window to check on Mrs. Thurlow when he came to a dead stop. I turned to follow his gaze, already in the process of returning my revolver to my pocket, when I too found myself stunned to silence.

Arthur Thurlow stood not four feet away from the woman who had once been his wife, his agitated anxious demeanour at odds with his frozen state...as he stood like a man torn. I glanced over to Holmes, completely unsure as to what our next move should be, and, in doing so, caught the very uncertain but vaguely hopeful light in Miss Thurlow's eyes. "Holmes?" I whispered, looking for some instruction.

Placing a finger to his lips, Holmes led us a little closer within earshot but not eye line of either of the two older Thurlows, stopping just as Arthur Thurlow seemed to gain hold of his motor functions once more and took a hesitant step towards her.

"Alice?" he asked in clearly nervous but anxious tones. "Are you well, Alice?"

He stopped immediately, his head drooping. "What am I saying?" he chastised himself quietly but audibly. "Of course you are not well..." Shaking his head, he sighed and took another step, gazing at her once more. "What I meant to say is...the alarm is over. There was nothing. They say…" he stumbled over his words, "they say I should not be here with you…but I saw the door open and you alone...and I was…was..." He halted mid sentence, and this big, brash, outspoken man sighed in defeat. "I'm sorry…it appears some things never change. I never could articulate properly around you…"

His former wife continued to stare into the fire for a moment before saying softly, "Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep, and doesn't know where to find them."

He blinked a moment, her words obviously confusing him, before his face cleared in a moment of clarity. "Ah..." he exhaled with a nod. "Well, I'm sure Helen and the others will be back with you shortly...leave them alone, and they'll come home, eh?" An uncertain smile crossed his face -- a smile which faded a moment later as he watched her unflickering expression.

He was silent for what seemed like an age, his eyes holding her, taking in everything about her, until finally, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping, as he deflated slowly, his voice stricken. "Oh Alice...my sweet, kind Alice...what have I done to you?"

She turned her head slowly to gaze at him, but I could see her eyes were still glassy and unfocused. "A tissue a tissue we all fall down."

A moment more and the tall doughty figure of Arthur Thurlow was on his knees by her feet, looking up at her. "How did I let it come to this for you?"

He looked down at her hands, and one could clearly see from the way he flinched that he had noticed the markings on her wrist. "You were all I could've wanted in a wife. You were my confidant...my partner...my friend...my guide...and my love..." There was barely a pause, as he looked back up at her. "My sweet love...my only love...and I destroyed you."

She sighed softly above him. "The mockingbird did not sing...the mirror turned to brass..."

He took in a ragged breath at her words and nodded. "It all went so wrong, yes, I know," he agreed. "And it was my fault, all of it. I was so hurt when I thought you didn't care enough to defend me to your people...but I forgot...how could I forget?" A deep frown formed on his brow. "How could I ever forget what a soft and gentle soul you were? How much you hated to argue and fight...and never ever could hold a grudge? I was wrong to let it affect me so...to let it drive a wedge between us."

"My pride, Alice..." he continued, looking up into her eyes. "The thing you always said raised me high and made me so strong...in the end, it was the thing that ripped us apart! My damnable pride," he cursed under his breath. "I let it take over. I let it swamp my heart and drown out everything I felt for you. Let it consume me and you too…convince me you were not with me wholeheartedly, and rather than comfort you as I had done before when I saw the pain in your eyes when you could not give me the son I wanted, I turned away from you..." His tremulous hand touched her knee. "But love...my love...it was never your fault. It was God's own judgement on me for what I had done. I had taken another's child...and while you forgave me when I told you of it so long ago, God, it seemed, could not."

At first slightly startled by the revelation that Alice Thurlow had long known of and forgiven her husband's past and his misdeeds, I subsequently found myself gasping in surprise as a very shaky pale hand reached up and touched his head gently, stroking his fiery red hair as if he were a lost child at his mother's knee. However, since her head was bowed, I could not tell if she was even aware of what she was doing...but I had a strong suspicion she did. "God forgives..." she whispered.

"Does he, Alice?" he asked, looking up at her with tears in his eyes. "He gave us Helen. That was my test for forgiveness, and I failed that too," he said quietly. "She was my girl. My darling, bright girl...and it was not enough for me. I wanted more. I had money and position, a wife and child who loved me, but I wanted more…and he punished me for my arrogance, and gave us no more children, and still I did not learn to be content...and I destroyed everything we had. And I blamed you. In my stubbornness and wounded pride, I indulged my ruthlessness and blamed you...but it wasn't your fault. It was _never_ your fault...it was always mine. Always, Alice..." Taking her hand from his head, he kissed her palm and then the white, scarred line upon her wrist before taking her other hand and doing the same.

"I called down destruction upon myself, my love...and I took you with me. In my pride and rush to ensure a legacy for myself, to make my name respected through my endeavours beyond my lifespan, I shut off my heart to every good emotion. I put it all away, all the love and softness...and sought out practicalities...what was logical, what was necessary..." he confessed, holding her hands tightly. "I walled up my heart for the longest time...and it suffocated everything good in my life."

I frowned slightly at his words and glanced over at my friend, someone I had often worried about for having pushed aside the tender, emotional side of himself in favour of his profession...of his pride for his highly logical mind. If this is the result of such a path, I only worried more now for him. Holmes, for his part, watched intently in silence but with the merest crease of his brow.

"Alice..." her former husband said in a breathy whisper we strained to hear, "though it was what hurt you, I can never regret my boys, because it was they who once again helped me break down the walls I had erected around my heart...and, as time passed, I let myself realise slowly truly what it was that I had done, what I had justified and rationalised..." Our client's voice broke, as he struggled to continue. "It means so little, my love, so very little, but I am so sorry...if you can hear me...if you can understand me…know that I beg your forgiveness now with everything in me, know that I have loved only you in my life...and that I will go to my grave loving you."

Her chestnut and grey head, indeed her entire body, began to shake as something inside her broke through the protective wall she too had built around herself, and, a moment later, I heard the undeniable sound of a woman crying.

If I had expected her daughter to rush to her side, I would have been mistaken, for as I turned to Miss Thurlow, I only saw a look of wonder on her face. Catching my eye, she shook her head in amazement. "She's crying...she never cried...never let her grief over this out…not once...not even when..." She inhaled slowly. "He got through..." she breathed.

Her father's chest heaved with the exertion of his barely repressed emotions as he looked up into her face and saw what we could not. "I will try to do right by you, Alice, and Helen in every way I can. From this point on, everything you should have had, I have promised Helen and I have seen to it...and even though you may never forgive me, would be right to hate me always, anything you ever need, will be yours." Reaching up, he touched her cheek softly. "Don't cry, my love, my angel...not for the loss of me at least. I am not worth your tears. What little worth I had disappeared the day I left you," he confessed. "But know, for the miserable and flawed thing that it is, you have my heart…you will always have that."

Leaning up and in, he pressed his lips to her bowed, shaking forehead, and held them there, his eyes shut tight, and his hand caressing her tear stained cheek, before he dropped back to his knees and took her hands once more, kissing the backs of them softly and laying his cheek against them. "I will love you always, Alice…my wife," he assured her before wrenching himself away, releasing her, tears coursing down his face as he walked from the room.

As soon as he had departed, Miss Thurlow pushed past me and Holmes and dashed into the room, immediately filling the space her father had just left in front of her mother, and wrapped her arms around the still sobbing woman. "Shhh, Mama," she whispered. "I'm here..."

Holmes walked to the window and stopped to wait for me. "Hopefully, now," he said quietly, "Mrs. Thurlow can let go of what she's been holding in inside of her all this time."

I nodded silently, watching the two women for a moment, before propriety remembered itself and I turned away. "We should let them be, old man," I suggested gently.

He nodded and turned away with me. "Yes, we have seen more than our fair share of family trauma on this case, Watson," he agreed, reaching for his cigarette case and offering me one from within.

Taking it gratefully and placing it between my lips, I reached into my pocket, and, after finding my matches, lit his and mine before gazing out over the garden at the setting sun to still my thoughts and prepare me for what was soon to come.

* * *

Dinner at the Thurlow household, before we departed, was a strange affair, in that in a house bustling with people, the large beautifully appointed dining room with its magnificent inlaid walnut dining table and room for twenty _without_ the wings being unfolded was populated by exactly three of us -- I, Holmes, and the cold and solitary figure of Ellen Thurlow, who was seated at the far end of the table in her customary silent protest at our presence, unyielding towards those who had brought her perceived 'enemies' into her house.

With the boys in bed, it seemed as if Arthur Thurlow had shut himself in his study, ostensibly to dine alone while doing some work, but as Mr. Hant had not yet returned from the further errands he had been sent on, it seemed more likely that he was still recovering from his emotionally turbulent encounter with his first wife.

A tragic affair, Holmes and I had finally agreed in the aftermath of our client's impassioned and sincere declaration, and I was left to wonder once more on the complexity of the human make up as embodied by our client, a man I had in so short a time gone from despising to genuinely pitying.

Of course neither of us were at all surprised when Helen Thurlow had not emerged to see her brothers off to bed at the appointed time; so shaken, no doubt, was her mother that she would not leave her side for a moment. I had no idea how any of this case would play out, but I could only hope that the cloud that had covered Alice Thurlow would contain a silver lining for her at least.

After dinner, we moved to the foyer where Goodwin helped us with our coats, only for the front door to be rapped on in the manner of the evening code that Mr. Fagan had given his men, and the burly fellow seated by the door folded his paper and opened it, allowing Harold Hant access on his return. On seeing us, a slight smile touched his face.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, off to see the Rajah?" he inquired as he approached us, a briefcase in one hand and bulky envelope in the other.

"Indeed, Mr. Hant," Holmes replied, doing up his light overcoat. "His Highness awaits."

"And hopefully a beginning to a resolution of this dreadful business," the young man returned. "I hope that your theory about the Rajah's sense of honour plays out in our favour, and that you can turn this omission by his champion into a way of halting all this."

Holmes gave the butler a quick nod as he took his cane from him. "I share your hopes, Mr. Hant, and have even made a head start on negotiations to that effect…is that for me?" he asked the young man, looking directly at him, while referring to the thick sealed envelope in Mr Thurlow's assistant's gloved hands.

Hant blinked at Holmes's sudden and rapid shift in topics. "Umm…yes, sir. It seems I caught you just in time, sir, for a courier arrived just as I did," he replied, offering Holmes the thick sealed envelope in his gloved hand. Holmes took it quickly.

"Splendid, Mr. Hant!" he exclaimed brightly, his eyes glittering at it. "Thank you."

The young man acknowledged Holmes's gratitude, while his cobalt eyes looked at Holmes inquisitively. "Pardon my curiosity, sir, but you said you have begun negotiations with the Rajah? How so?" As his gaze moved from one of us to the other, I was, I must admit, as lost as he was, and looked at my friend in a similar fashion.

"I took the liberty this afternoon of absenting myself from the Thurlow family to write a short letter to the Rajah, informing His Highness of the state of play with regards to his 'honourable war,' and sent it off to be delivered once he had returned to his suite this evening following his dinner engagement," Holmes explained as he checked the grandfather clock in the hall. "With any luck, he should be reading it now, and will have had time to absorb my words before our arrival, expediting matters somewhat."

I nodded in approval as I put my hat on. "Good idea, Holmes. With any luck, he'll call off his man immediately. The sooner Miss Thurlow and her family are out of danger, the better for my taste."

"Indeed, indeed." Mr. Hant nodded in thoughtful agreement before, hefting his briefcase, he looked around and enquired of me, "Is Mr. Thurlow still at dinner, Doctor?"

"No," I replied, my eyes firmly on the envelope in Holmes hands, noting what oddly appeared to be handwriting very similar to his own on the front and eager to know what was inside. "I believe he is in his study, Mr. Hant."

"And…" He hesitated, glancing at the double doors to the drawing room. "Is, umm…Miss Thurlow still with her mother?"

I lowered my head and hid a small smile at the pleasant young man's ill concealed interest in his employer's newly restored daughter.

"Yes, indeed," I answered with a nod, while gazing back at him. "And though I believe she is recovered from her brothers' unexpected betrothal of her to you…" I joked, garnering a nervous flush from him, "I would ask you not to disturb her this evening, Mr. Hant. Her mother is much in need of her tonight."

"Of course, Doctor, of course," he agreed readily. With a nod of thanks, he moved away and to the door, knocking gently as Holmes and I, with the help of our giant of a doorman, moved out and into the Square where Mr. Hant's cab had been thoughtfully retained for us by one of the Baker Street Irregulars, who were now at every corner and nook and cranny of the place.

Tossing the lad a shilling for his quick thinking, Holmes and I climbed into the hansom cab and took off for Claridges, heading out of Belgrave Square via Grosvenor Crescent and the corner of Hyde Park, the lights of the Palace burning in the distance off to our right, while Holmes opened his letter.

"Addressing letters to yourself, Holmes?" I asked, taking in the handwriting.

As he glanced down at the discarded envelope on the seat, the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. "No," he replied rather enigmatically, "but it does somewhat resemble mine, I grant you."

Holding it up to the cab light, he nodded slowly and tapped the pages of the copious letter with his cane here and there for a full five minutes of the journey through Mayfair, as I waited with barely contained expectancy.

"It is precisely as I thought, Watson," he said, just as we approached Grosvenor Square. "Sir Richard Maddesley was, ironically like Mr Thurlow, a young captain in the army, albeit the British rather than Indian Army at the same time as our client. _And_…he was assigned to the court of His Highness Annand Mahindra as Her Majesty's government liaison to advise of her government's pleasure, and, of course, to keep the government advised of what was going on in the bitter dispute Mahindra was involved in with his neighbour Shurapak." He glanced on down through the notes his source had compiled for him.

"By all accounts, young Captain Maddesley, as he was called then, was very taken with the Rajah, calling him…" He gave me a small vindicated smile, as he quoted it to me, "'_One of the noblest and most honourable men of either race I have had the good fortune to meet.'_ He also castigated Rajah Shurapak for his behaviour and attempts to unjustly lay claim to and conquer Mahindra's lands as well as his use of devious means, including slave trading to raise money."

He flipped over another page. "Apparently, eventually Maddesley wrote to the Queen herself about the Rajah, exhorting her to champion him in his struggle and speaking in glowing terms about Mahindra…his letter so moving, it appears, that Her Majesty did indeed take a personal interest in the matter and became a friend to the Rajah himself."

"Does it say anything about the Princess and Maddesley?" I asked curiously.

"In military and political dispatches, Watson? No," he replied with a shake of his head. "However, my source, in his usual encyclopaedic way, has written a few notes of his own." He tapped the letter once more before continuing, "According to Maddesley's personnel records at the Foreign Office, while the still Captain Maddesley was attached to the Rajah's court, he was admonished several times by his military superiors for…" He paused almost for dramatic effect. "'_Losing his detached perspective and allowing himself to become involved in native affairs.' _"

I sat back against the seat and sighed softly, my former army career having prepared me well for reading between such lines. "It sounds like you might have been right on the money again, Holmes," I agreed with a wry nod. "I've heard those terms used before many times as a slap on the wrist to officers who had become personally involved with local women, and had even fathered children on them. Still," I continued, glancing out the window at our surroundings, "it seems to me unlikely that Sir Richard himself could be the man out to avenge himself on our client. A man with a position like his would surely be recognised skulking around and…"

I trailed off slowly as I realised that Holmes was staring at me as I spoke, and I frowned, recognising all too well the spark of connection his brain had just made.

"What is it, old chap?" I asked my friend quickly, as, turning onto Brook Street, we approached Claridges.

Before I knew it, Holmes had tugged open his overcoat and was unceremoniously pulling out a small book from his inside pocket that I recognised as one of the reference books he had been studying earlier in the day.

"Hades take me! How could I have been so infernally blind?" he cursed himself as he flipped to the back of the book and thumbed through the pages rapidly.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, my frown deepening. "What is it?"

"What is it?" he growled, shaking his head and glancing up at me. "What it is, Watson, is you. You, my good friend…revealing to me to not one, but _two_ pieces of this puzzle at the one time. Pieces, which had they had teeth, would have surely bitten me on the nose, so close to it were they!" he declared, making a strangled sound of outrage at his own perceived incompetence.

Simultaneously rather taken aback and pleased, I allowed myself a small smile at my unwitting assistance in the case before returning to the matter at hand, namely what on earth it was I had said that had gotten him in such an uproar. Something which Holmes thankfully illuminated for me without any further embarrassing probing on my part.

"No one out of place or exotic was seen skulking, as you so colourfully say, around the offices of Thurlow & Balfour, Watson, because no one _was_ out of place!" Slowing his turning of the pages, his finger took to running down over a list of words.

"It was never any of the Rajah's men, who would, of course, have been instantly singled out due to their appearance. Nor was it a mere hired man, for the rules of engagement were deliberately changed, and a hired man has no personal interest in changing the rules. He would have followed his instructions to the letter, informing Thurlow of the precise nature of the Rajah's traditional challenge," he informed me quickly.

"Sir Richard Maddesley would, indeed, have been too obvious as he made his way through to Thurlow's office in the middle of the day to deliver the dagger…" His finger stopped hovering over what he had sought, and he exhaled slowly.

"No, Watson, our man is indeed walking a tightrope between carrying out the Rajah's orders and his own personal and very Westernised _'Eye for an Eye'_ style desire for revenge. A man caught between two worlds, like Sir Richard. But he is not the still grieving lover or widower of the Princess Mahindra that Richard Maddesley is." He tapped his finger on the page, and showed me the book, saying, "Rather, he is the vengeful son of both."

Looking down in the dim cab light, I peered at the word he bade me see. "Arihant," I read the Hindi word aloud, scanning across to its English translation. "_Destroyer of His Enemies_...from the _Triptii _challenge." As I remembered what he had explained to me of that, I felt a frown from on my brow. "Arihant…" I repeated, before my eyes widened and shot up to meet his as I breathed aloud, my tone aghast, "Harry Hant."

With a nod of his head and leaning forward off his seat, Holmes hammered with his cane on the ceiling of the cab. "Cabbie!" he called urgently for the man's attention.

A moment later the driver's peephole was flipped open, and the man peered down at us. "Yes, sir?" he enquired.

"Your last fare…the fare you brought to Belgrave Square before we engaged you? Where did you start out from?" he asked directly.

The cabbie blinked, before raising an eyebrow at the question. "Why…from here as it happens, sir…Claridges."

"Turn us around, man!" Holmes barked urgently. "Take us back to Belgrave Square as fast as you possibly can!"

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Thank you again for all the kind words! BaskervilleBeauty...your review made both our days...a very deep and sincere thank you to you for your words. Only one chapter and an epilogue to go...we hope that all who have read are enjoying the mystery, and please feel free to review and let us know your thoughts. Aeryn (or aerynfire)**_


	8. The Serpent's Tooth

_**Chapter Eight: The Serpent's Tooth**_

The cab blazed through the darkened streets of London, the horses' hooves clattering on the road outside as I braced myself against the lurching of the cab's movement, the cabbie having laid the horses flat out on Holmes's exhortation that it was a matter of life and death that we reach Belgravia as soon as conceivably possible.

"I don't understand, Holmes," I exclaimed as the cab rocked wildly on cornering, leaving angry voices trailing behind us. "If Hant…or whoever he is…wanted to kill Arthur Thurlow, why hasn't he done so before now? He has had plenty of opportunity working for him all this time."

"Why?" Holmes repeated, his eyes grimly ahead of us. "I would imagine, firstly, because his grandfather instigated this and Hant needed to work within his rules so as not to be seen to overtly disobey him, as well as having to wait for his grandfather's arrival from India, and, secondly, remember his private aim…an eye for an eye…a tooth for a tooth…a daughter for a daughter…"

"Miss Thurlow," I exhaled, my stomach lurching at the thought that he was there at this moment with her. "Of course, he had to find her! Even his employer didn't know of her whereabouts, what with no contact between Arthur Thurlow and his first family, and no money being paid to Alice Thurlow and her daughter…there was no trail paper or otherwise for him to follow."

Holmes nodded in agreement. "Precisely. He would have had to have embarked on a search for her himself, as well as make enquiries, and considering he had to wait for his grandfather to initiate the challenge, to strike at Miss Thurlow before then would have left a trail right back to him that could have easily been discovered…and certainly would have alerted his main target. No, far easier to threaten her, and let Thurlow find her and bring her in. Two targets close together are a great deal easier for a viper to strike at. Kill one and the other is almost certainly removed from him, and he wanted both."

"And while everyone's attention is focused outwards to stop the attacker getting in," I concluded, "he, as the trusted aide, already has absolute access to both of them."

Holmes gave another snort of disgust. "I can't believe I overlooked the possibility of a child. Yet as soon as you said it, Maddesley's eyes, blue and piercing, flashed right through my mind."

"Blue and striking…just like Hant's," I agreed, before continuing with a more consoling tone, "Not surprising, old man. After all, when one thinks of the son of an Indian Princess, one does not tend to think of pale skin and blue eyes…he most definitely takes after his father."

"I did not think of a son at all, Watson, that is what bothers me," he growled with a shake of his head. "I have let myself become distracted by the more…domestic and emotional aspects of the Thurlows' situation. My attention has not been what it should be." His expression grew even darker. "However, I fear that we have given him precisely the opportunity he has been waiting for. Up to this point, he has had no real moment to strike at both of them simultaneously as he required. He was sent away on legal errands the night we brought Miss Thurlow here, and we have been with the family every moment since then…"

"Until now," I breathed, my stomach tightening even further.

Holmes nodded brusquely. "And with him knowing about the letter I have left for his grandfather, he knows now is the only time he has to strike before the Rajah reels him back in."

"Dear God, Holmes," I whispered, shaking my head in almost mute horror. "Miss Thurlow."

Holmes remained utterly silent as the carriage barrelled onwards towards Belgravia.

* * *

As we reached Number 12 Belgrave Square, all seemed silent -- the guard outside the door and the casually placed Irregulars that were in sight, all decidedly unperturbed, at least until they caught sight of our cab thundering towards the house and sliding to a halt.

Opening the door, Holmes and I made to run into the house when we were frozen by the sound of a woman's terrified scream, which was silenced all too abruptly.

"No!" I cried, reaching for my revolver as Holmes raced through the door hastily opened by the guard posted there, who followed us rapidly inside. Dashing in behind him, I was vastly relieved to see Miss Thurlow and her mother in the foyer, the drawing room doors flung open behind her, as people came running from every direction in the house, including Mr. Fagan, who raced down the stairs three at a time with two of his men behind him.

My relief, however, was immediately tempered by the realisation as to where Miss Thurlow was heading, as, with a head start on everyone, she made straight for the source of the scream, throwing open the door to her father's study.

"No, Miss Thurlow!" Holmes called, charging after her as she swept right into the undoubted heart of danger.

Racing in after Holmes, I skidded to a halt as the horror of the drama playing out before us sank in. Arthur Wendell Thurlow lay dead on his desk, the blood pooling around his head and slumped body, and his wife, Ellen dead on the floor in front of him.

"No!" the anguished voice of the man's daughter cried out. Heedless of any danger she dashed to her father's side, her mind not registering yet that all was hopeless.

Holmes made a grab for her but missed, and a hair's breath of a moment later, the open door was rammed into him, sending my colleague staggering back into me. A flash of grey and the man we had known as Harry Hant bolted across the room, grabbing Helen Thurlow just as she reached her father's side, and, taking hold of her and swinging around, secured her in front of him, the blood stained khukuri, with which he had done the merciless deeds, pressing into her throat.

"Back..." he hissed, his blue eyes, once warm and friendly, now icy as he eyed the queue of armed and ready men near the doorway. "Get back, or she'll join her father in whatever afterlife you believe in!"

Regaining my balance behind Holmes, I did my best to keep a clear head as my eyes fixed on the young woman now held hostage, who managed to bite back a cry of pain as the dagger bit into her neck. "How can you do this?" she gasped, her eyes fixed on her father's body.

Holmes, once recovered, moved not back but sideways, allowing those behind, myself included, egress to the room. Stepping to the far side, I in similar vein allowed Mr. Fagan access, and he slipped in along with one of his men, leaving another in the hallway with Mrs. Thurlow.

"Let her go, Your Highness..." Holmes replied in a calm voice. "You have taken your revenge and an innocent life to boot." He paused and gestured quickly to the body of Ellen Thurlow with a flick of his cane, though his eyes never left Hant's. "There is nothing more to be gained from further bloodshed."

"I said, get back!" he exclaimed, his eyes watching every movement carefully. Tightening his grip, his knife pressed harder against his hostage's throat, causing Holmes to cease all movement instantly.

"Kill her," my friend continued quietly, "and you will have not only subverted your grandfather and, no doubt, your father's intent...but you will have dishonoured your mother's memory." His gaze was careful but scrutinizing. "Do you think such a noble woman would have wanted the blood of innocents shed for her, Your Highness?"

I watched Miss Thurlow's eyes widen as the pieces fell into place in her mind, but she inhaled sharply as the knife bit her once more.

"You will not speak of my mother!" Hant growled, his hold on her tightening, causing her to wince in pain. "None of you are worthy."

"Why? None of _us_ have the blood of a mother on their hands," Holmes countered, eliciting a stunned blink from Hant. "Upstairs," he continued as quietly as before, "there are two young boys now orphaned. You lost your mother...a devastating loss for any child even as one as young as you surely were when it happened, Your Highness. But, tonight...tonight, in your blind strike for vengeance rather than justice, you have not only taken their father, who, no matter what you thought of him, they loved dearly...but their mother too." His eyes bore intensely into the young man's; his tone direct. "You have orphaned them...done to them on the double what was done by half to you.

"Your grandfather sought redress. He sought balance. He wanted his daughter's honour restored in an honourable fashion in the only way he felt was open to him in the absence of a trial...a fair fight...something akin to justice at least. But you...you have merely perpetuated the cycle of violence, sir!" he accused. "What next, Your Highness? Do you kill their sister too? Do you try to go upstairs and slaughter them both as well?"

"_What?_ No!" Hant cried defensively. "I would not hurt the boys! That was never my intent!"

"No..." Holmes shot back, "but that is what you have done all the same. Done to them what was done to you...even if, by some miracle, you escape this place and us, what then? Will you return to India and wait for them to grow up, become men...and in their hatred of you...seek you out, plot their revenge, and take it out on you and all those that you love? _More_ blood! _More_ death!"

"He deserved to die!" Hant roared defiantly.

"Maybe. But she?" my colleague pressed, indicating Ellen Thurlow's body ahead of him.

Hant's eyes flickered. "I had not intended for that to happen," he admitted. "She burst in as I was...as I..." His gaze shifted to the body of Arthur Thurlow before he then shook himself and continued, "She saw me…I had to do something!"

"But you weren't quick enough. She screamed before you could stop her, and now you are trapped," Holmes pointed out. "A life wasted for nothing."

"Aye..." Mr. Fagan murmured from behind me, "you'll swing for sure."

Hant laughed suddenly, a most disturbing sound in a room full of tension and death. "_Swing?_" he scoffed. "I won't swing. I won't even stand trial for this...just as he didn't for my mother's death. My grandfather and his connections will see to that. You see…" A smirk formed on his lips. "The same things that kept Arthur Thurlow safe from our prosecuting him when we found him, his wealth, connections, position, and the upheaval of a public trial both here and in India, will be the very same things that will keep me from ever seeing the inside of a court." He moved himself and Miss Thurlow slightly, taking care to keep her well in front of him. "Your courts will not be able to touch me for the scandal that would touch your Queen, whom my grandfather took tea with today! England herself cannot afford the humiliation of admitting that a much celebrated business power and increasing influence in the economic well being of the Empire is complicit in slave trading, rape, and the death of a princess…and cannot afford it becoming public that they did nothing for the repercussions it would have in India.

"As for my grandfather, he will be angry with me, certainly, for disobeying him, but I could not let the chance for vengeance slide by simply to satisfy some outmoded convention of honour that would only have protected the man we sought! Warn him, and Thurlow could have gone to ground for years! He will understand in the end, and I will be protected, not just by him, but by your own government!" he sneered.

"No matter what he thinks of my methods, I have done what was intended. The men responsible for my mother's death are dead. Balfour escaped me, but I used that to my advantage, used my language skills and connections to forge a background and credentials and become Harry Hant, and took up the position in the heart of my enemy's fortress. I became his trusted advisor, and then, after checking through his records, confirmed once and for all to my grandfather that he and my father were right…this was the man we sought," he voiced with a hint of pride.

"As you say," my colleague responded, nodding slowly. "But no matter what way you dress it up, you have slithered into the hearth of your target, rather than attempted to challenge him properly as you were instructed. Did your father and grandfather even know that you had done any of this? Do they know you usurped their plans, and acted like a snake rather than a warrior, merely to gain an unfair advantage?" Holmes jibed much to my worry, as I, fearing for Hant's hostage, hoped he would not drive him too far.

The young man's face darkened. "He deserved no advantage. He murdered my mother."

"No..." Holmes replied, "he may have been responsible for her death, but he shared that responsibility with the men who sold her into slavery, the men your grandfather was at war with. And war, no matter what may men may dress it, has never been an honourable thing." His voice gradually grew louder with every word. "It was she who took her own life...took it to stop any further degradation of her honour, any further loss of her pride both for herself and her family name, while you, her son, threw away his honour and pride by ignoring his family, threatening and _actually _murdering innocent women!" he fired at him, and it seemed Holmes's words shook Hant as the truth of that statement struck home.

However, Miss Thurlow's eyes again widened, and her expression became most anxious as she gazed behind me. Looking back over my shoulder, I was startled to find the young woman's mother wandering around from behind me into the room, singing softly but audibly, "Three blind mice. Three blind mice. See how they run. See how they run. They all ran after the farmer's wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife...have you ever seen such a sight in your life, as three blind mice."

She paused for a moment as she emerged fully into the open, and saw the grizzly scene before us, her eyes lingering on the body of her former husband. "Nevermore," she whispered, before turning her eyes to where her daughter was being held by knifepoint. "Someone's been a very naughty boy," she admonished quietly.

Hant watched her carefully, already agitated by Holmes's badgering, her oddly serene babblings unnerved him even more. "Get her out of here," he murmured, his eyes on her.

Miss Thurlow's eyes met Holmes's, her gaze shifting between him and her mother as a signal to him to remove her. "Please," she gasped out to him.

Holmes took a step forward, but not towards Mrs. Thurlow. "What now, Your Highness? Will you take the next step and slaughter a child in front of her mother?"

"Get back!" Hant shouted, his eyes drawn back to my friend as he moved slightly closer. "Do as she says...get her out of here!" He glanced back at the altogether unpredictable Mrs. Thurlow.

"Or what, your Highness?" Holmes asked. "You know as well as I do that this woman also suffered at the hands of Arthur Thurlow, as did the one you are threatening right now. Will you kill her daughter and compound both their suffering to an even greater degree?"

I watched the older woman wander closer to the pair on the far side of the room. "Helen...who's the nice boy?" she asked, her voice vague and dreamy. "Has he come for tea? It's not nice to play pirates without your brothers, you know."

"Get back!" Hant yelled again but this time at Mrs. Thurlow. "Get back! I'm warning you, I'll hurt her!"

She paused mid step and gazed at him, her amber eyes staring into his. "Now that is not the way a nice young man talks to a lady," she admonished. "If you can not play nicely, perhaps you should play by yourself for a while, young man."

As Hant tightened his grip on her daughter, the hand with which he held the knife moved towards Alice in a warning gesture. It was a tiny move, minute, but it was enough to take the knife away from the throat of his captive, and in that moment, Holmes inched forward just enough for his cane to move into range. Raising it, he brought it down hard on the young man's hand, knocking it further away from his victim before he dived in and grabbed the knife arm with one hand, shoving Helen Thurlow savagely away from her assailant as hard as he could with the other as he started to wrestle with Hant.

My gun arm was raised in a moment, but between Miss Thurlow's staggering form and Holmes tangling with Hant, there was no clean shot to be had. Mr. Fagan beside me, however, took a far more direct avenue of attack, charging across the blood stained floor to help Holmes. As it happened though, Holmes slammed Hant's hand hard into the painting that hung on the wall...the cottage in Somerset...the glass shattered, cutting the young man and causing him to drop the knife. A moment later, Holmes's other hand closed into a fist and cut across the young man's jaw in what was the best right hook I ever saw him throw.

It was Hant's turn to stagger and, a moment later, Mr. Fagan and his man were on top of him, grabbing either arm and restraining him as he continued to struggle wildly.

Seeing him secured, I turned to the women to find Mrs. Thurlow helping her daughter to her feet, her arms wrapped securely around the younger woman, while glancing over to the struggle as if to make sure the danger had passed. It was now I noticed with a faint sense of amazement that the vague, hazy look had almost disappeared from her gaze, though there was the hint of a dreamy undertone still in her amber eyes. Miss Thurlow, however, was trembling noticeably, though valiantly attempting to stay strong.

Noting they were safe, I hurried over to my colleague's side, my revolver at the ready.

Holmes turned from the struggling young man, who was being strongly admonished by the two men restraining him for not behaving himself, and warning him that if they were not in the presence of ladies rougher justice would have been handed out, and, looking at his fist, flexed it rather gingerly with a frown. "I believe I may have rather badly bruised this," he commented quietly.

I shifted my attention from my evaluation of the struggle to check on Holmes's hand, and, handing him my revolver so as to free up my own, I took his injured one in both of mine and gave it a quick examination. "I think you are most certainly right, old man. This will need ice and a bandage as soon as possible," I told him bluntly, noting the knuckles were already beginning to swell, before taking my revolver back.

"As soon as possible, after we decide what we are to do with our prisoner," he agreed, glancing back and then moving to Alice and Helen Thurlow. "Miss Thurlow, you are well?" he enquired, to which she nodded briskly back in reply with a handkerchief pressed under the curve of her right jawbone where her attacker had managed to break the skin.

"Then I suggest you and your mother depart this scene at once," he said gently, as I noted both of the women were taking great pains not to look at the bodies near them. "I think you have both been through enough trauma this evening." He paused as he turned to regard Mrs. Thurlow. "Though I thank you greatly for your help, Mrs. Thurlow. You were an invaluable aid in a most troubling situation." He inclined his head respectfully, and, to my increasing awe, the older woman returned the gesture before starting to lead her daughter, who was also rather stunned at the transformation, from the room.

Before they could reach the door, however, there was something of a commotion outside in the foyer, and, in the next moment, the remaining members of Mr. Fagan's crew and some of the Irregulars, who had entered the foyer to see what was going on, were surrounded by a bizarre mixture of Indian native guards and police officers in tandem.

By the time the two women reached the doorway, they were blocked by a tall man standing in it, a man Holmes and I immediately recognised as Sir Richard Maddesley.

"Father!" Hant called out, commencing to struggle once more, but when he went to speak again, Maddesley silently stepped aside, and this time, the women were faced with the imposing figure of Rajah Annand Mahindra, a man of eighty plus years, but six feet tall and healthily robust. He filled the doorway as he took in the carnage in front of him before turning his gaze to his grandson.

"Release him!" he ordered Fagan and his man in the tones of a man not used to being disobeyed, his long white beard brushing against the cream and gold embroidered Indian coat he wore.

Fagan, however, stood firm. "And who might you be?" he quizzed.

"He..." answered a third voice coolly from behind the Rajah, who moved into the room, revealing a man I recognised as Lord Lucas Fairfax, private secretary to the Prime Minister, "is His Highness the Rajah Mahindra...and you, sir, will do as you're told."

Mr. Fagan, to his credit, merely looked at Holmes, who gave a nod of confirmation, and a moment later Hant was released.

Lord Fairfax glanced behind him. "Inspector," he called, "clear everyone but the family, Mr. Holmes, and his colleague from the residence at once."

A couple of minutes later, Fagan, his men, and the Irregulars were taken from the house to be corralled outside by the police beyond the environs of Belgrave Square.

Though Hant had been momentarily exultant, his smugness faded somewhat under the gaze of his father and grandfather. "Grandfather," he started, stepping forward.

"What have you done, Vikram?" The Rajah cut him off, staring at the body of Ellen Thurlow.

After a moment's hesitation, his grandson pointed at the body of our late client. "I have avenged my mother, your daughter," he announced, before looking over at his father. "Your wife!"

The Rajah's dark brown gaze rose up from the dead woman to the body of the man he had sought to challenge, and he walked forward slowly, watching as Arthur Thurlow's blood seeped across his desk and onto the floor.

Miss Thurlow's face grew even paler as her own gaze was compelled in the same direction, her poise beginning to fail at the sight of her father's blood dripping onto the carpet. Her mother's arm, already wrapped tightly around her, gave her a reassuring squeeze as her dreamy gaze took on a very clear and sorrowful aspect.

The elderly monarch looked up at his grandson, his voice a harsh whisper. "This was not how it was supposed to be, Vikram. This was to be a private matter! It was agreed by all at the very highest levels. We could not try him in court and cause havoc in the Empire with the repercussions, so we were to seek justice our way. Justice!" he boomed, before his fist hammered on the desk. "Not slaughter!"

"It was all the same, Grandfather!" the young man replied. "It is hypocrisy to pretend otherwise. He was a dead man. They…" he paused as he nodded towards Fairfax and the police who stood behind him, "would never have let you be killed by him. Therefore, they signed his death warrant as well as any court! All this talk of honour was futile! All that would have happened is that he would have been even harder to get at...longer to kill...I would not...could not wait anymore. I wanted vengeance..."

"You wanted..." the Rajah growled, as he straightened. "_You_ wanted...you wanted his death and her death too!" He pointed a long bejewelled finger at Miss Thurlow. "What had she to do with it, except what you deemed she had? You...this was never about you, Vikram. Never about what you lost or what was taken from you. This was about your mother...always about your mother!" He stopped as his anger grew more palpable with every word, and turned to gaze at everyone in the room. "You will leave us. I would talk to my grandson and son-in-law alone."

Lord Fairfax looked at the women in front of him and stepped aside. "Ladies?" he said perfunctionally, before showing them the way out.

The crowd soon filed out after them, leaving only the police, the Rajah's guards, myself, Holmes, and the two ladies in the foyer, before being joined by Lord Fairfax, who sighed, looked at his pocket watch, and then took a seat in the hall looking rather bored.

"My condolences, ladies, on your loss," he said to the two women after looking around and then focusing on the silent quartet in front of him. "Although as I understand it, you may be rather pleased by the outcome of tonight's events. The man was, after all, no gentleman." He sighed lightly almost in relief. "A fact I'm grateful for, as to have to organise this and take out a man of breeding would have distressed us far more."

I watched as the pale, trembling form of Helen Thurlow seemed to harden instantly as she turned to face the peer and high level civil servant. "Sir, how dare you say such a thing! That man was my father, and no matter what my feelings are towards him or his wife, no one...no one...deserves to be murdered!" she retorted forcefully. "I loved my father, despite his sins, and need I mention that he and his wife have two boys upstairs that have just lost their mother and father in one fell swoop. I would be very obliged if you watched what you said in this house."

It seemed the stubborn and defiant spirit of Arthur Thurlow would indeed live on in his daughter as she attempted to put one of the foremost men in London in his place, while still retaining her civility and clarity.

Lord Fairfax, though somewhat taken aback, still showed appalling manners and breeding by merely nodding, eschewing any kind of apology whatsoever.

"I presume, Lord Fairfax," Holmes voiced coldly from where he stood near Mrs. Thurlow, "that what the Prince Vikram said is accurate. We will not see justice done for tonight's crimes."

The older woman, who had been gazing around the room as if she had just noticed it for the first time, turned her own intense amber gaze to the secretary to the Prime Minister.

"Crimes, Mr. Holmes?" Fairfax responded with a faintly puzzled air. "There were no crimes performed tonight...only justice was carried out."

"Justice," Holmes spat. "Is that what it is called? And what of Ellen Thurlow? What of her murder."

Fairfax exhaled heavily, but only shrugged. "An unfortunate accident...most unfortunate."

Miss Thurlow's face darkened with each word. "_Justice?_ _Accident?_ How can you be so cavalier with your words, sir! That," she stressed, pointing her finger to the door, "is not justice. A court and trial by his peers is justice. Having your throat cut after being hunted down and being terrorized along with your family is most certainly not! Even the Rajah seems to know that!"

"Perhaps..." Fairfax replied, rising to his feet, "but he will deal with his grandson in his own way. Your father's death and that of his wife will be in the paper tomorrow...a tragic but terrible carriage accident...something the State mortician will back up with his death certification." He brushed down his jacket with an unconcerned air. "As was agreed upon."

I could not tell in that moment if she was livid or stunned into silence. Though I sympathised with her completely, I had had the suspicion that this was what would occur since we found that our man was the grandson of the Rajah and connected so closely to the Royal family.

His eyes moved over us all before turning back to the bereaved daughter. "There was more at stake here than just one family or even two, Miss Thurlow. Your father had achieved what he had set out to. He was a renowned figure, a great man...prominent in business and increasingly influential in government circles. We could not afford the scandal and division a trial with such tasteless and scandalous details would have brought about. It would have caused upheaval and unrest both here and in India. It is but thirty years since the great Indian Mutiny, and India is enough of a tinderbox as it is. So rather than risk that, we acceded to His Highness's request that this be dealt with...privately. You, of course, were not meant to be included in the agreed upon terms...nor was Mrs. Thurlow, the late Mrs. Thurlow, I mean. We shall have to see about recompensing your brothers somewhat," he added with an annoyed sigh.

The young woman's expression rapidly shifted from anger to being completely appalled. "My brothers..." she whispered, turning to me and my friend, her voice filled with concern. "What is to become of them?"

Holmes glanced at me before approaching her. "After you left afternoon tea earlier today, Miss Thurlow," he began quietly, "your father took us into his confidence. It appears that he drew up and had notarised all that he had promised you and your mother would have by right -- the money, extra for medical needs and whatever else came up, and the house in St. Albans...but...he also told us that he had changed his will. He informed us that, should anything happen to him, it was his decision that you and his wife would share custody of the boys equally." Holmes gave her a small if wry smile. "He felt you could provide warmth that she could not."

She stared at him in complete shock, her mind valiantly trying to reconcile another surprise, before she stammered, "He...the boys...they're mine?"

"With the death of their mother too...yes, I imagine they are," he confirmed with a quick nod of his head.

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers, and a hand flew to her mouth. She appeared to me, to be almost about to collapse, but her mother again appeared at her side and slid a steadying arm around her. Once again, I found Mrs. Thurlow's transformation to be increasingly remarkable, and I hoped, for her daughter's sake, that it was permanent and not just the result of being startled out of her depression by adrenaline and shock. After a moment, the young woman managed to collect herself enough to ask my companion in a voice that was almost a whisper, "Will there be no justice for him and Ellen?"

Holmes glanced at Fairfax, who looked away with blatant disinterest, and, on turning his penetrating gaze back to her, his manner was stiff and uncomfortably apologetic. "Not in this world, Miss Thurlow," he replied before taking in both women. "I am sorry."

She swallowed and glanced at her mother, who had a slight frown on her face. "I see...then I shall have to trust in Heaven's judgement," she replied, her voice soft but regaining strength as I saw her glance toward the stairs. "I must...I must speak with my brothers. They will have heard the commotion, no doubt, and will be concerned."

Just then the door to the study flew open, and the Rajah exited into the hallway and stopped to look at Fairfax as he moved to him. "Our business here is done," he said forcefully. "My grandson and I shall return home, where he shall be properly admonished for his behaviour."

Turning around, he focused his attention on the two women. "I am sorry for the threat you have lived under for this past while and for the death of the mother of his other children. My grandson has dishonoured us, and I will see to it that recompense is made...something towards their education, perhaps," he offered stiffly.

Sir Richard Maddesley, his son by his side, stepped out after the Rajah and frowned slightly at his father-in-law's words. "Your Highness..." he said quietly, "perhaps it would be best if we departed."

Mrs. Thurlow stared at the Rajah with her wide far-away looking eyes, while her daughter seemed to stiffen a little, obviously biting back what she truly wanted to say in an attempt to keep her decorum in the face of a royal personage. She glanced over at both Holmes and myself for guidance.

"Your Highness..." Homes cut in, taking a step forward, "up to this point, I have been an admirer of your strong sense of honour and adherence to tradition. However, blood money has long since ceased to be an acceptable way of dealing with one's mistakes. I fear you only insult the ladies with such recompense. No amount of money will, in their view, recompense Miss Thurlow for the loss of her father and the boys for the loss of their parents."

The Rajah frowned and glanced towards Sir Richard, who nodded gently to affirm Holmes's words. "I see," the white haired old man responded. "I apologise for the insult. I sought only to appease for the damage done. It is as Richardji says...we shall leave, and you will see us no more." He glanced at his grandson. "Come, Vikram."

The elderly monarch, the man we had known as Harry Hant, and the Indian guards around us left quickly...leaving only Sir Richard behind. His hands clasped behind his back, he approached the women and inclined his head slowly. "I wish you well in the future, ladies. I am sorry for what you have been forced through; that was never our intent...we sought only justice for my late wife." He paused and gazed intently at Miss Thurlow. "Perhaps you will tell your brothers, should tonight's deeds inflame in them to a similar reaction as my son's in the future...what kind of outcomes can manifest themselves in doing so." With another nod of his head, he walked grimly from the room.

Miss Thurlow watched him leave, a pensiveness to her eyes though they were vibrant in their anger and sorrow, while her mother turned her head to the stairs. "Little ears," she said softly, when she caught me gazing at her.

Lord Fairfax watched after the departing dignitaries, and then turned to the Inspector at the door. "Inspector, take four men and remove the bodies to the morgue, please," he ordered, waving a hand towards the study. "Then return to the Yard, and file your report on the accident." The Inspector sent two men out immediately for stretchers as Fairfax walked to the women.

"Miss Thurlow, Mrs. Thurlow...your cooperation in this matter is appreciated by Her Majesty's Government," he said cordially, and looked around with such smugness that I longed to strike him. "Your silence will save lives, I assure you. After all, isn't the defence and safe keeping of the Empire in all our hands?" he continued, drawing himself up. "One man...one woman...for the lives and financial well being of so many others...a fair sacrifice."

Miss Thurlow said nothing to him, but Mrs. Thurlow's eyes met his, an anger and perceptiveness in them that almost dispersed the remnants of the fog that still resided within that amber gaze. "The truth will out...the truth will out..." she sing-songed.

Her daughter glanced at her and sighed, shaking her head. "There is no fairness in any of this, sir, and I'm afraid you will never convince me otherwise. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to explain to two little boys why their Papa will never read to them again, nor their mother kiss them goodnight."

With a slight shrug, Lord Fairfax gave another nod and wandered away. "Gentleman, I shall be in touch," he said, giving both Holmes and myself cursory glances as he departed, while the Inspector and his men moved into the study to take charge of their grisly haul.

About five minutes later, Ellen Thurlow's body, covered in a sheet, was carried out and taken via the back to the servant's entrance and the waiting police carriage.

Unwilling to wait and see her father removed, the young woman turned to Holmes and me. "I bid you both goodnight, Mr. Holmes...Dr. Watson. I...I must go speak with my brothers." Her eyes flitted to the study door nervously. "Will I see you both at the funeral?"

Holmes nodded in silence, as did I, and, with a quick nod of her own, she turned briskly to climb the stairs. Her mother waited a moment behind and held out her hand to my friend silently. As he gently accepted it, she took as step closer to him and whispered something I could not hear in his ear, before releasing his hand and making her way to her daughter's side, her arm finding its way around her daughter's waist in comfort.

A minute later, the larger body of Arthur Thurlow, the man who had sought greatness all his life, and whose increasing greatness had ultimately ensured his death at the hands of the State he lived in, followed out into the foyer. His hand slipped down off the stretcher as they walked; the imposing figure of a man too large for that which bore him away.

On the landing despite her flight, Miss Thurlow turned as soon as his body passed through the hall, watching the white sheet disappear around the corner, it too on its way to the back doorway, her eyes full of heartache and loss, while beside her her mother looked away, unable to watch.

Holmes also watched quietly as they carried out our now former client. "Ultimately, it all seems rather futile, Watson...what you strive for, hope for, live for...in the end, it seems no matter what, you end up alone."

I turned my gaze from the young woman, who was still staring into the now vacant hallway, and back to my friend. "It does not have to be so, old man," I told him, making a solemn inner vow that it would not be so for me.

He shook his head. "It does if you wish to be remembered, it seems," he inhaled quietly. "Let us leave, Watson. I would like to get home."

I nodded quietly and walked in measured steps to the door, turning at the open entryway when I noticed that my friend was no longer at my side.

Remaining behind for a moment, Holmes glanced up the staircase at the two women there and inclined his head to each in turn, his eyes finding the younger of the two and holding them. She for her part gazed back, and I got the vague feeling there was a meeting of the minds taking place before he turned on his heel and swept out the door, a most grim expression on his face. After giving each of the ladies a nod of my own, I followed him into the muggy, late summer night.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Thank you all again for all the wonderful reviews and hope you find this chapter and the epilogue (which I shall post at the same time) a satisfying end to our mystery. Indeed, we have both tremendously enjoyed it! **_

_**Just one quick note for JA Lowell - may we first say that we adore (really and truely) that you love the story and your seriously indepth reviews! In fact, we appeciate how you were so early on able to conclude who the killer was before Holmes! Now moving on to The Raven...nope...this wasn't a hammer hit over the head about our killer...heh. Actually, the fact you mentioned that gave us a chuckle indeed. Actually, it is my favorite poem and details the decent into a madness caused by grief...parallel Alice Thurlow here. So purely face level there... However, her comments to Holmes about 'nevermore'...not so straight forward...we know what they mean...but read what you will...and no...it's nothing to do with the killer or mystery. Heh... **_

_**Till later, and again, thank you, everyone for reading and/or reviewing! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	9. Epilogue

_**Chapter Nine: Epilogue**_

Arthur Wendell Thurlow's funeral occurred a little over a week after his death, taking place the day after his wife's to allow for the arrival of more prominent personages from England and abroad.

The carriage accident that Lord Fairfax had trumpeted was indeed reported in all the major papers the day after their death, the _accident_ having occurred somewhere around Charing Cross Road in the early hours of the morning with very few witnesses to testify to the 'man' who spooked their horses and caused the cab to ultimately overturn. The cabbie, however, was miraculously unhurt.

The turnout for the affair was large, with attendees ranging from workers in his employ through charity workers, business colleagues and admirers, those who benefited from his charitable largesse and those in the arts, including some rather prominent actors and artists of the time to whom his foundation had given money or aid in one way or another. In addition though, and no doubt to what would have been his amusement, there was a great number of London's High Society in attendance, including (in a show of great gall) Lord Fairfax himself...all of them suddenly sorrowful and well-speaking of the man.

At their head were the Pembridges, Alice Thurlow's family, there in great numbers, and no doubt gratified to see the turn for the better their kinswoman had taken...just in time, they very likely hoped, to influence her daughter in spreading some of the money she had inherited from her father their way. For it emerged that A.W. Thurlow had not just left her his sons and the stipend he had offered to her in his will, but also made her trustee of the boys' inheritance until their coming of age, and for herself the sum of five hundred thousand pounds.

Helen Thurlow was now a very wealthy young woman in her own right.

The family, as usual, led the way to the cemetery behind the horse drawn hearse, its black horses bedecked with black plumage as the solemn procession made its way to St. Marylebone Cemetery, with Miss Thurlow, her two brothers, and Mrs. Thurlow at the forefront until they reached the graveside.

The service was swift and to the point, not unlike the man they were burying, and all through, Miss Thurlow remained stoic if sad, most probably for the benefit of her two brothers, who having to bury both parents in the space of twenty-four hours, were, needless to say, fragile and pale.

Both boys were ashen as they stood by their father's graveside, their hands clinging to one another, their eyes red rimmed as they tried not allow their tears to fall, without success. The twin seven year olds, their worlds turned upside down as they faced a future neither of them were sure of, watched their father, whom they knew nothing more of save that he loved them and they loved him, be lowered into the earth.

Their sister held a hand on each shoulder to try and give them strength, but the tears streaked down their faces regardless as they reached down to throw flowers, dirt, and a copy of their beloved Treasure Island onto the mahogany box below.

Their tears were joined by those of their sister's mother. Mrs. Alice Thurlow, whose rehabilitation had begun that night with her erstwhile husband's confession and execution, had it seemed grown a little more lucid each day, and now had reached the point where she was more than aware of the enormity of what had happened and the final departure from her life of the man who had given her such great pain and misery, but who had remained, until the end, the love of her life.

I suppose I would have learned more of how they were coping if we had attended the gathering of family and close friends we were invited to after the service concluded...but Holmes declined the offer when the funeral usher had issued the invitation on the family's behalf, and nor was I surprised at that, as he had increasingly blamed himself for what had happened, feeling he had not been swift enough in reaching the conclusion that would have stopped the carnage.

We returned home to Baker Street in virtual silence, and he didn't speak again until after Mrs. Hudson brought us some tea and sandwiches.

I stood from my chair and, moving slowly over to the table, began to pour out the tea for us both. Crossing back over to him, I handed him his cup and sighed. "Holmes, old man, you must stop blaming yourself. You solved the case and saved Miss Thurlow. You must not forget the good you have done in all this," I reminded him.

"Good? Solved?" He took the tea and promptly put it down again. "Please, Watson, spare me such exaggerations...I stumbled across the solution far too late for any good to come of it. I handed three children money, stocks, and shares in place of their father. And for their father, our actual client...I gave him not safety, but a place in the cold ground...I failed utterly!" he exclaimed, looking away in disgust.

Shaking my head and, resigning myself to the fact that he was due to head into one of his 'black moods' again, I moved back to retrieve my cup and a small plate of sandwiches, before resuming my seat. "You did save Miss Thurlow, however, and I know she is grateful for that."

"And how do you know that?" he snapped peevishly. "Neither of us has spoken a word to her since we left the house that night. She's gone from seamstress to being thrust into her father's funeral arrangements as well as those of a woman she despised, and trying to deal with God knows how many businessmen...not to mention the fact that it was her mother who saved her life, not I," he huffed, exaggerating greatly. Rising to his feet, he moved to his desk and sat down again, his hands thrumming on the flat surface, and gazing intently at the drawer in front of him, in which lay his own personal solution to his ills…the one I dreaded him turning to.

"Holmes," I said, my tone a bit more one of warning than I meant it to be, and decided to change tack. "Mrs. Thurlow's recovery seems to be also progressing," I commented, my brow furrowing as I remembered something. "What did she say to you by the way...that night?"

He continued to gaze at his desk with a frown, lost to the world. "Hmmm...what?"

I sighed, seeing my prediction playing accurate. "Mrs. Thurlow...the whisper? What did she say to you?" I repeated.

He blinked and threw a quick look back at me. "One of her usual garbled rhymes, if you must know, Watson," he replied indifferently, his eyes returning to the desk. "'_Do not fall off the wall, never say nevermore._'"

I sipped on my tea, my eyebrow arching high. "That is indeed most unusual...but interesting. She mixed two different quotes together...wonder what it means?" I mused.

"Probably that I'm missing something," Holmes groused. "It seems to be a recurring theme."

"Do you think?" I asked, attempting to keep him talking. "The falling off the wall is from Humpty Dumpty...and 'nevermore' is from 'The Raven'..." I took a bite from one of the sandwiches on my plate. "Well, Humpty Dumpty is about pride...and never saying nevermore, could be about never saying never..." I sighed. "Or it could be complete gibberish..."

He turned around quite suddenly. "Which reminds me, Watson...on the subject of never...I must ask you not to write up this case and its nightmarish ending."

My eyes darted back to him, startled. "Never? Are you sure?" I asked, covering that I had already started the account the night previously and was almost finished. "Why not?"

Reaching to his side, he picked up an open telegram. "It is, Watson, a courtesy designed not just to save my face or the embarrassment to Thurlow's remaining family...but a formal request from Her Majesty's government in the interests of Imperial Security," he explained, a bitter edge to his tone as he tossed the telegram in my direction. "As signed by Lord Fairfax." He sighed with irritation. "Breach such a 'request,' Watson, and we run the risk of being accused of treason. No doubt Mr. Fagan and anyone else who witnessed the grisly outcome of that night has been similarly warned, or bribed, or both."

I caught the yellow paper in my hands, reading it over quickly and, with a disappointed sigh, nodded. "Very well, Holmes...I will do as you ask," I agreed, deciding to lock up my writings with the other cases that I had already consigned to paper before Holmes could tell me otherwise, cases that he did not wish to have the world know of yet.

"It is not my request, Watson," he reminded me, turning back around to his desk. "Though I don't deny I'm not grateful for the chance to conceal my inveterate bungling!" he snapped at himself, as his hands finally reached for and pulled open the drawer he had been staring at.

I stiffened in my chair and opened my mouth to berate him for his obvious intent, when there was a soft knock on the door. Still a bit irritated on how he abused his mind and body, I called out sharply, "Yes?"

The door opened slowly, and I was very surprised to see Miss Helen Thurlow step into the room. "Am I disturbing you?" she asked, her voice as soft as her knock, but strong.

Holmes closed the drawer and turned around. "Miss Thurlow," he said with some mild surprise, and rose to his feet. "What brings you here?"

I hurriedly stood as well and moved to show her to the couch, but she waved me away. "I have come to thank you, Mr. Holmes...Dr. Watson..." She gave me a small smile. "I should have come before now, but matters required my attention...and..." She paused, inhaling slowly to calm her nerves. "So please forgive my ungratefulness. I am very much indebted to you both for saving my life."

She reached into her small purse and pulled out several notes. "I also wished to settle my father's responsibilities with you...for your time, patience...and a cab ride, I believe?" She recounted her list with a tiny wry smile on her lips as she gazed levelly at Holmes.

My friend's face darkened at that. "I thank you, Miss Thurlow, for taking the time on such a day as this to deal with these matters, but you should not have left your guests...for there is nothing to settle. You and your father owe me nothing." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Nor do you owe me your thanks."

She crossed over to him and placed the money on his desk. "It was no trouble, I assure you, Mr. Holmes. And yes...I do. For you see, you not only saved my life, but gave me one back as well. More than one actually..." She looked up into his eyes with utter sincerity. "Yes...I lost my father, but before he departed this earth, you gave him back to me. For two perfect days, I got to have the man who loved me back into my life...I got a chance to resolve old hurts, and it opened the door to a new relationship. For two days, I had a father again, and that means more to me than you could possibly know. You also gave me my brothers, and them a sister...and my mother, if not for your advice and encouragement, I would never had allowed my father and her to speak...and she would not only have not had her answers and chance to heal...but I would never have had my mother return to me as well. You have given me my family, Mr. Holmes...and a future, and I am grateful beyond words."

He gazed steadily at her, his dark demeanour fluctuating somewhat at her words, but a moment later, he picked up the money and handed it back to her. "I am gratified that you have found all these things to be true, Miss Thurlow. I am pleased you have found a silver lining in this for you and your family. But the fact remains, your father hired me to unmask his attacker and keep him safe. One of which I failed to do in time, resulting in the complete failure of the other." He shook his head adamantly. "I failed, Miss Thurlow...I ask that you please take this back so as not to compound my failure with the taking of money under false pretences."

She shook her head and closed his fingers around the bills. "They are not false pretences. He hired you to unmask the villain and protect himself and his family. You are not invincible, Mr. Holmes, and you do have expenses, and I will not hear of taking back a penny. You did your job, and gave back more than just lives. Besides, it was not you that allowed all this to take place...I am loyal to England, but what has occurred at the highest levels has left me with nothing but disgust. No...you are not to blame for my father's or my step-mother's deaths...and if you do not take this small token, you will be insulting me greatly," she finished, quirking an eyebrow, and using a tone that in its firmness, I could tell, meant that it was useless to argue with her further.

Holmes stiffened somewhat at her touch before moving away and putting the money on the desk. "It is unseemly to dispute such a matter," he relented quietly. "I shall take it so as not to offend you, but it shall not be kept."

She nodded and gave him an understanding smile. "It is, of course, yours to do with as you wish," she replied, watching him closely before laying her hand again on his arm. "Thank you," she voiced again with utter gratefulness and sincerity before stepping back, her hand dropping to her side, as she turned to me. "And to you, Dr. Watson, we are all indebted to you as well."

I shook my head emphatically. "No thanks are necessary, Miss Thurlow," I assured her, feeling much as my friend did that we did not do much at all, though I had tried to convince him otherwise.

"Nevertheless...but I will trouble you both no more," she said with a tiny smile and headed for the door, turning as her fingers touched the knob. "Good day to you both." And with an incline of her auburn head, she bade us farewell and left.

Holmes sank back down into his chair by his desk and eyed the money she had left there. "A most resilient and forthright young woman, Watson," he commented thoughtfully.

I nodded in agreement, as I too lowered myself into my seat, my eyes reluctantly shifting from the door. "Indeed...I have never seen anyone win an argument with you before," I replied almost in spite of myself, shaking my head as I turned back to him.

"Really, Watson," he huffed with a frown, "you do say the most ridiculous things. I merely acceded to her request to avoid an uncouth argument over money and to avoid insulting her."

I forcibly kept from rolling my eyes at his remark, and instead mused, as he rose to his feet, "I wonder if we will ever cross paths with her again?"

"Doubtful, Watson," he replied, reaching for the case by his desk. "Very doubtful."

Opening the case, he took out his violin, gazing at it thoughtfully as he tested it, and slowly relaxing. "Now...a little Haydn, I believe," he pronounced quietly a little before the soft strains of _The Serenade_ filled the rooms of Baker Street.

_**Finis**_

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_**The last Authors' Notes: This concludes The Forfeit Daughter...and wow...what a ride it has been! Thank you all for your reading and enjoyment...your kind words have filled us with a deep gratitude. Now...here is where we have been sneaky. This story can be a stand alone...or...you can tune back in with us in a few weeks for An Unforseen Occurance. Yup...this was written as a launching board to a much bigger tale. Some characters may be returning...some won't. However, we will be leaving Watson's perspective and switching to the third person to explore the perspectives of others...including Holmes. We hope that you will enjoy it when it rolls out (though give me a week or two...I'm way behind on my editing for a Severus Snape fic we have up elsewhere). Again...thank you all, and please feel free to review! Tea and scones...Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_

**_Addendum: As of January 7th, 2006 the refit of this story is now complete. I'd like to give a huge shout out to our beta, D'arcy (aka Savageland), for going through this story and giving it a through grammar and beta read. She really rocks our socks. :D_**


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